


Danse Does Vegas

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Begging, Blindfolds, Breathplay, Breeding, Cock & Ball Torture, Comeplay, Deepthroating, Dehumanization, Dildos, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fetishization, Fisting, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, Humbler, Impact Play, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Paddling, Past Abuse, Pegging, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Snowballing, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25311787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Danse bottoms his way across the Mojave and into emotional revelations.
Relationships: Paladin Danse & Deacon (Fallout), Paladin Danse/Beatrix Russell (Fallout), Paladin Danse/Keene (Fallout), Paladin Danse/Multiple M!Mutants, Paladin Danse/Red Lucy (Fallout)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 49





	1. In Which Danse Gets Obliterated

**Author's Note:**

> Untagged background relationships include Deacon/various and Danse/Maxson. The relationship between Danse and Maxson is in the past and shows Maxson as an abusive partner. Danse and Maxson are also much closer in age to one another than they are in the original canon. I borrowed a headcanon about Danse being Jewish, but am not Jewish myself. Sensitivity reading kindly done by [Hannah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah), and any failures in research or representation are entirely my own. There are also several characters using ASL. Constructive criticism is appreciated, and again, any failures in research or representation are entirely my own.
> 
> The fetishization of mutants is not intended as allegory or substitution for RL issues regarding race and kink, but does step close to related issues. Danse is also dealing with his own internalized and externalized bigotry. Please consider this a warning.
> 
> I identify as queer. Some of the characters use ‘queer’ as a nonderogatory label for themselves and others.
> 
> Deacon is genderfluid and alternates he/they. If you dislike this interpretation of the character, feel free to hit the back button.
> 
> And last warning: the ejaculating dildo is modeled after deathclaw cock. :)
> 
> Kindly beta’d by [Hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon), without whom the third chapter wouldn’t exist!
> 
> Many thanks (and apologies) to Duster, who cheered me through the first cracky draft. Alas, the Danse/FISTO scenes ended up cut. And Danse/FISTO/Liberty Prime remains a dream.

Danse blinks as he enters the Atomic Wrangler, the dust from his boots drifting to settle between the worn floorboards. The saloon’s darkness is a welcome reprieve from the unrelenting glare of the Mojave sun. He and Deacon had heard the rumors of New Vegas—a city lit up like a firework, that turned aside not one, but _three_ armies to claim its independence—and so far, it’s failing to live up to its reputation. History repeats itself across the many bars, saloons, and diners they have traveled, and this one holds no novelty. Even if the back room _does_ glow with slot machines, filled with the warm slap of cards across felt-covered tables.

Deacon ambles to the bar and pulls up a seat. Danse clumsily follows suit, the stool’s legs scraping the floor. A Protectron stands in the corner, the soft yellow light from its rounded dome easily the brightest thing in the room. Danse wonders if it serves as security. It’s certainly better-polished than any other Protectron he’s encountered.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

Deacon orders a beer, and Danse requests sarsaparilla. He still does not approve of Deacon drinking on the job—if ‘job’ is the right word to describe the most ambitious coast-to-coast survey of the former United States since Lewis and Clarke, but still surely better than the ‘road trip’ that Deacon calls it—but as long as Deacon stays away from the harder liquors, he’s learned not to mind.

The bartender is unexpectedly familiar, though. Danse narrows his eyes, trying to place him, then relaxes his jaw and tries to make it into less of a glower.

But when the gears click, he spits his sarsaparilla.

“Security Chief _Harkness_?”

The man’s eyes narrow, and—yes, yes, it _is_ him. Skin chapped by the sun, but the same square jaw, unsoftened by age. The same brown hair cut close to the scalp, unlined with silver. The same blue eyes and familiar glare, without a wrinkle or crease more than Danse remembers from Rivet City. The same face, looking no older than mid-thirties.

Except that means that Harkness hasn’t aged in the past fifteen years.

Just like Danse.

“Just Harkness. There’s no Rivet City for me to be Security Chief of,” the man grits out. His hands flex, twitching as if to reach for a sidearm that’s no longer there. Danse tries not to mirror the move. “Last I saw, you joined up with the Brotherhood.”

Danse swallows, a dull throb at the base of his skull. “What happened to Rivet City?”

“Don’t you know? Your buddies gutted the ship and stole our generator.”

Danse’s face goes hot. Then cold. Harkness’ voice is coming from a very long distance away, a metallic echo in the sudden-vast emptiness of his skull. He is dimly aware of Deacon squeezing his hand, fingers wrapped across Danse’s wrist, but it’s no anchor against the tectonic weight of what Harkness just said.

“The Prydwen,” he says numbly. “The generator. It came from an aircraft carrier...I thought they _bought_ it.”

“And you believed them?”

Danse stares blankly into Harkness’ face. Tries to tally the sum of the man’s expression: the small vein throbbing at his forehead. The grimace. The way he hunches into the bar, knuckles jutting white through the raw boundaries of skin.

Danse has never been good at reading people, but Harkness is writ large.

Something of Danse’s loss must reach through, because Harkness straightens up. Grits his teeth. Smoothes his hands carefully over a folded rag as he wipes the counter in slow, measured circles.

Deacon is the one to break the silence.

“He left, you know.” _Was abandoned_ , he kindly doesn’t say. He twiddles the blue ‘he/him’ pronoun pin on his jacket. “Brotherhood got too big for their airship, started raiding crops from the settlements.” Another incomplete truth, as if ‘raiding’ captures the razing of the Slog or the assault on Sanctuary. As if Danse hadn’t faced former comrades across the lines of combat, defending his new home from old friends. “Bunch of us got together and shot them down.”

“Must’ve been some real tough farmers,” Harkness says blandly.

Deacon’s teeth flash in a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, well. We’re tough, out in the Commonwealth.”

Danse locks his spine straight, staring down at his hands. Grips his knees, trying to settle the simmering guilt into some semblance of parade rest. No matter how much history Deacon elides, Danse is still guilty. Ignorance is insufficient excuse—not when Danse had never considered how the Brotherhood acquired their rations, the thin line between ‘friendly eye in the sky watching for raiders’ and ‘powerful military watching your movements.'

But he hadn’t expected them to destroy the place he once called home.

Harkness raps the bar, and Danse jerks his head up. “Best not to talk about being Brotherhood. Even former Brotherhood. Likely to get you shot around here.”

“What about being...you know?” Danse tries miserably, gesturing towards his face, then Harkness’ face. There’s a static itch at the base of his skull, an uneasy prickle at the site of his synth chip. Probably psychosomatic.

Probably.

Harkness’ voice could cut glass. “What? Jewish? Queer?”

Danse’s voice shrinks, fetal in his lungs. “A synth.”

“Nobody gives a fuck, Danse. We’ve got Securitrons running enforcement and people lining up to fuck a Protectron. Nobody gives a goddamn _fuck_.”

“Hey, hey, sorry to cut in,” Deacon says, interrupting the stream of shame dripping through Danse’s ears (as well as the abrupt and horrified realization about the Protectron in the corner), “but I got a question. As an out of towner, like. What happened with the Brotherhood out here? I mean, they’re a bunch of assholes anyway, but sounds like there’s history.”

“HELIOS One,” Harkness says flatly. “Power plant out here. Brotherhood took it, same way they take everything else they want. NCR wanted it too. Two years of war. Lot of people in the crossfire. Then they attacked a Followers outpost.”

Deacon scrunches his nose, hand up for a halt. “Wait—who are the Followers?”

“Followers of the Apocalypse. They run the schools and clinics out here.” Harkness shakes his head with a jagged scowl. “So when a bunch of paladins obliterated an entire outpost...well.”

“Why?” Danse asks, barely above a whisper.

“Same reason as always. Tech’s better in _their_ hands. No matter how dirty those hands got.”

“I’m sorry,” Danse says numbly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Harkness rolls his eyes. “Apologies are cheap.”

“How can I—how can I prove I’m not like that?”

Harkness jabs his thumb at the Protectron. “Fuck the robot.”

Deacon howls, slapping his thighs as Danse sputters.

“Or don’t. I don’t give a shit,” Harkness says wearily. “I don’t care what you did. Only what you’re doing now.”

Danse flushes, digging his thumb into the seam of the sarsaparilla label. “I’m—Deacon and I decided to travel. See what’s left of the United States.”

“The world’s biggest ball of twine, the Atari burial site—”

“—and other locations of cultural and historical relevance.”

“Which is Danse’s way of saying that we stopped by the Donut Dunkers Club for free samples.” Deacon waggles his eyebrows, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Pro tip: dunking works best with a firm donut. You gotta pick an old fashioned or something a little stale.”

Harkness raises an eyebrow. “Interesting choice for sightseeing.”

“Hey, what else are road trips _for_?”

Danse catches his nail on the edge of the label, slowly dragging it off. It’s easier to focus on the mundane task of peeling the damp paper than to witness Harkness’ judgment. “I thought it would be good to build some memories that weren't—programmed, so to speak. Neither implanted nor shaped by my former superiors.”

“Is that so?”

Danse swallows, risking a glance up.

Harkness is watching, still and unreadable.

“I’m sorry. I truly am,” Danse says. The words are clumsy, inept. “I do not expect your forgiveness. And apologies can't make up for what you’ve lost.” The word ‘teshuvah’ heavy on his tongue, without breath to voice it. A lesson of repentance that a person, a _real_ person, had learned long before the Railroad gifted those memories to Danse.

Danse has failed many lessons in his life.

Harkness folds his arms together, shoulders square. “What, no stories about how much you’ve suffered?”

Danse tugs his lips into a smile, already knowing it won’t reach his eyes. “Suffering is not the same as redemption.”

. . .

History is a looping chain of memory, and while Danse does not trust his own memories, he does trust Harkness.

Danse investigates the Old Mormon Fort, observing the local school and vaccination efforts. With a sharp twist in his gut, he knows that Curie would have been quite happy here. Preston, too, if the Followers had been around instead of the Minutemen. If history had played out differently—if the Followers of the Apocalypse had been the stabilizing influence of the Commonwealth instead of the Minutemen—then Danse might have been one of the ones attacking the outpost.

Maybe he _would_ have attacked that outpost, if he had been here only a few years ago.

He and Deacon rent a room in Freeside long enough to go from ‘sobriquet’ to ‘clarion’ in their word of the day calendar; a parting gift from Piper, less a goodbye and more a ‘until we meet again.’ Deacon passes the time playing tourist while Danse makes a few more miserable efforts to revisit Harkness at the Wrangler.

But the former security officer has little time and fewer words for another East Coast transplant.

“Why?” Deacon asks, the second time a ghoul in black leather sends Danse away. Deacon’s pronoun pin is the green ‘they/them’ today. “Was he an ex?”

Danse exhales, a long chuff through his nostrils. “No. Not like that. He was—is—someone I respected.” He curls his fingers, resists the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. “When I lived in Rivet City—he was an exemplar. He was respected by everyone on the Hangar Deck, not just the Upper Deck residents who…” Danse shakes his head. “Irrelevant. But I admired his strength, his certainty. His dedication as guard and protector. And when I joined the Brotherhood, that’s what I thought _I_ was doing.” He shakes his head again, and gives a bitter chuckle. “I had hoped that if we ever met again, it would be with pride.”

“You always had a hard-on for authority, huh?”

“I just wanted _someone_ to be proud of me.”

Deacon’s nose scrunches, mouth open as if to speak, but they clack their jaw shut and settle for patting Danse on the shoulder. Which would be incredibly patronizing under other circumstances, but their smile is soft, without teeth. Deacon smiles more than any other person Danse knows, an ever-changing cipher of moods and intent. Danse has catalogued the nuances over the past few years, every snag and irritation of expression. Because Deacon’s a liar, through and through. And Deacon’s _honest_ about being a liar, which makes it even more maddening. So Danse has had to learn to sieve intention over truth.

By his best estimates, Deacon is being genuine. Comforting, even.

“I’m fresh out of gold stars, but I’ll buy you an ice cream, okay? How’s that, kiddo?” Deacon then ruffles Danse’s hair, which _is_ patronizing, but Danse suffers it long enough to earn a trip to the Tejada Popsicle and Heladeria.

Deacon flirts outrageously with the proprietor—which is to say, Deacon flirts as they usually do, stirring Danse to equal parts envy and mortification—and purchases a rum punch popsicle, slurping their tongue down the ice-cold shaft and rendering Danse incredibly self-conscious of his own red, white, and blue rocket pop.

“There is _no_ nonsexual way to eat a popsicle,” Deacon confides. “Make love, not war, world peace through frozen treats.”

Danse gives a noncommittal grunt, chasing a blue raspberry drip with his mouth. “We’re not seeing much of the world from here. According to our itinerary, the Winchester house and the immortal light bulb are in California.”

“We’re sightseeing,” Deacon says flippantly. “California has the house, but Vegas has a _pinball museum_.” They sprawl back in their chair, knees spread wide, and Danse angles his legs away from Deacon’s shins. “We’ll get there eventually.”

“We’re also dipping into our travel funds. Are you sure…?”

“What’s the rush? Not like we have a deadline.” Deacon lowers their shades enough to wink at the shop owner through the window, causing the ghoul to roll his eyes and smile. Deacon then attempts to deep-throat their popsicle out of misplaced romanticism, and Danse ducks to avoid Deacon’s spit-gag.

“I would feel better if our expedition had some sort of purpose.” Danse gives Deacon’s back a helpful thump as Deacon coughs up their popsicle. The shop owner, meanwhile, has turned his back to the window, clutching himself in laughter.

Wheezing but not discouraged, Deacon says, “The purpose is _fun_. And if you’re worried about caps, you could always hire yourself out at the Wrangler.” Deacon waggles their eyebrows, eyes still watering. “They already line up for Fisto—”

Danse sputters, nearly dropping his rocket pop.

“—but if that’s not your speed, I was thinking courier work. An excuse to travel around the area, see the sights.” Deacon shrugs. “I checked out the Fort, talked with Julie. It’s not much, but I already have two letters for Jacobstown, plus a man who wants to check up on his dog.”

Danse crinkles his brow, then rescues his wrist from a near-drip of blue. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Nah. The King said he had to send his dog for medical treatment. Pup fell in love with an old lady, and he didn’t have the heart to break ‘em up. So he asked me to go visit, say hi, give the dog a few pats. That kind of thing. Also…” Deacon shifts closer, lowering their voice.

Despite himself, Danse leans in. His knee bumps Deacon’s thigh.

“It’s an _entire town_ of super mutants! _Friendly_ ones!” Their grin is ear-to-ear, eyebrows waggling. "Imagine what Strong would say!"

"If they're like Strong, then how do they run...?" Danse falters. He’s grown to accept that Strong is smarter than he'd originally given credit for, but balks at imagining a functional community made up entirely of Strongs.

"Same way everyone else does! Besides," Deacon adds, patting Danse's shoulder, "I know your thing for macho hardbodies. You might get a date, hey?"

Danse’s jaw drops, sputtering. "I would _never_!"

Deacon cackles. Too late, Danse realizes that this type of reaction is exactly why Deacon teases him. “Five caps says you go back begging for a gangbang.”

Which Danse most definitely would _not,_ and even if he _did_ , it’s a long climb. By the time they reach the town nestled in the mountains, his thighs are sore and he's wheezing too much to beg for anything. Deacon is in worse shape—Deacon regards physical training as an unfamiliar word in the dictionary, between 'penis' and 'pituitary'—but that meant that Danse was the one huffing and puffing their gear up the trail.

The sun’s down but night hasn’t fully set, leaving the sky a deep and velvet blue while the trees cast long shadows on the ground. This quiet place, with its wooden palisade and quaint cabins scattered about the lodge, with its pen of bighorners and a separate section for brahmin and even a coop for _chickens_ which are sleepily clucking their way to bed, could be a recruiting poster for any settlement in the Commonwealth. Even with the mutants. Evidence of past visitors decorate a board at the front of the town—a rough calendar of caravan visits, plus various scarves, ribbons, and buttons tacked onto the sheltered cork board. Someone even posted a photo of a small child, laughing on the shoulders of a smiling mutant while the presumed parents beam proudly, their gazes going out of frame.

Danse tries not to stare, mindful of the fact that they’re visitors. That they’re surrounded by mutants in more colors and shades then he had ever imagined, from a dark pine to a more muted yellow-green, including purple mutants who range from bruised to lilac. Some of them wear dresses, some of them wear shirts, but most of them are dressed in piecemeal armor and clothing, shoulder pads and bracers that leave broad swathes of muscle on display, rippling arms and shoulders and—

“Five caps,” Deacon sing-song whispers. He has exchanged his green pronoun pin for his blue one again.

Danse clamps his mouth shut.

Grinning, Deacon hails the nearest mutant and asks for directions. Danse keeps his mouth shut during the introductions, nodding tersely when introduced but otherwise letting Deacon take control of the situation. Apparently the purple mutants are ‘nightkin,’ and Rex—the dog they’ve been sent to find—resides with an elderly nightkin named Lily. Deacon’s directed where to deliver the letters for Doc Henry and Calamity, but both Deacon and Danse are advised to check in with the mayor.

There is an aching familiarity to the settlement, to the ease that the mutants have with one another, talking in small groups or working in companionable silence. It reminds Danse of the easy camaraderie aboard the Prydwen.

As they walk away, Danse whispers, “You heard that? Complete sentences. Local government. They’re—”

“Smarter than half the Wasteland assholes out there? Yeah, yeah. Get with the program, Danse. We’re not gonna make friends around here if you keep acting like that.” Deacon glares across the top of his sunglasses. Mildly, so mild that it stings worse than a stronger rebuke, he says, “You should know better.”

Danse flinches. This settlement, had it been in the Commonwealth, would have been a prime target for the Brotherhood. Much like the Slog—and for a moment, memory carries the whiff of rot, of tarberry gore and bodies mangled on the ground. The aftermath of slaughter, the Minutemen arrived too late and Danse with them.

His throat gags with the taste of whiskey, and he forces his mind back to the present.

The mayor turns out to be a mutant named Marcus. He offers them lodging as a courtesy for making the trip, and is even more interested in having a courier who can relay messages down the mountain.

“We get more visitors than we used to, but we still get a lot of stares down in the Mojave,” Marcus says with a shrug. Not even a hint of resentment or anger, which Danse would have expected. Just...exhaustion. Deep lines etch the broad planes of his face.

Danse flushes, still warm with guilt.

“More reason to come visit, then. You’re certainly worth looking at.” Deacon smiles, waggling his eyebrows.

Marcus grins, and Danse decides it would be less mortifying to move to the lodge’s kitchen before Deacon commences full-body engagement with their host.

A gray-furred cyberdog is curled up in one corner of the kitchen, on top of a pile of blankets. He snores gently, jowls gusting on the exhale. An elderly nightkin—at least as best as Danse can estimate age, as she has deeper wrinkles and looser skin than the others, and a tremor in her hands that may be age or medication—wearing a flowered sundress stirs various pots over a warm stove. Another nightkin wearing a red scarf pulls trays of baked potatoes from the oven. He’s tall, even for a mutant, and the pink dish towel slung across his shoulder isn’t enough to dampen the sudden drop in Danse’s stomach.

“Jimmy? Have you come to help grandma cook?” the older one asks. “Why don’t you help Keene with the potatoes?”

Danse opens his mouth to correct her, but withers when Keene glares at Danse as if he were a radroach.

Nevertheless, Keene’s voice is gentle as he responds, “Lily, I don’t need help.”

“Nonsense, everyone needs help.”

Danse lingers in the doorway, torn between the desire to please and the desire to avoid confrontation.

Finally, Lily repeats, “Jimmy?”

Keene is silent, and Danse isn’t sure how to address her obvious mix-up. Compliance is the path of least resistance, so he enters the kitchen.

The kitchen is large enough for a full patrol, never mind two mutants and a synth. It puts Danse in mind of the Brotherhood kitchens, especially with the quantities they’re preparing. The kitchen’s warmth, thick with the aromas of baked yucca, potatoes, cornbread, and chili, should have been a pleasant respite from the mountain chill.

But Keene’s hostility weighs heavy on Danse’s shoulders, raking his neck with long claws. There’s enough space that Danse can avoid being underfoot, but the nightkin’s well-muscled chest is its own distraction. Danse’s tastes run more towards wide shoulders and thick forearms—both of which Keene has—but there is the sheer physical impact of the man’s presence, the broad plate of his sternum and the heat radiating off his skin as Danse brushes past. An unintentional jostle from the nightkin has Danse ricocheting to the side, clutching the counter for support before Lily carefully scruffs him back upright.

Keene’s well-muscled chest has rippling shadows across the defined ridges of his pectorals, smooth and uninterrupted by tufts or curls of hair. Mutants have little in the way of body hair, which reminds Danse of the gleaming, oiled bodies from the prewar fitness magazines that used to go around the barracks. Theoretically, those had been for inspiration and training regimens, but they generally inspired Danse to take a cold shower.

Keene’s well-muscled chest—

—suddenly drops from view, and Danse is inches away from eyes dark as the merciless void, set in a face that’s the same purple as the early night sky.

“You’re staring, human.”

Heat crawls up the back of Danse’s neck, singing his ears. He stammers, but the apology evaporates off his tongue. The cables of his jaw seem cut, mouth hanging open in a mush-mouthed mumble.

Keene’s lips curl, baring teeth, but Lily’s deep-gravel voice interrupts.

“Keene, Jimmy, go set the table now.” She pushes a stack of plates into Keene’s hands, then gives Danse a double-fistful of cutlery.

Danse follows Keene to the dining hall. There’s a long wooden table and several smaller tables set around the edges, which Danse carefully circles so as to keep a table between him and Keene at all times.

Danse struggles to find a neutral topic, anything to defuse the tension, and asks, “Why does she keep calling me Jimmy?” He bites his cheek, belatedly realizing that he still never said _sorry_.

“Her memory’s not so good these days.” Keene’s voice is bland, though he rattles the table as he sets the next plate down with more force than is strictly necessary.

Danse’s gaze drifts down one of the wooden tables. There is a heart carved into the wood, with two pairs of initials inside. The graffiti’s worn smooth, and he wonders whether the lovers are still together. “Should I tell her—?”

Keene barks a laugh. “You won’t be staying long enough to bother.”

Danse swallows his words and sets the tables.

There’s a dinner bell hanging outside the hall, next to a flagpole. Keene gives it three sharp clangs, then runs up the flag. The emblem is a faded blue butterfly, and Danse does not recognize the significance, but he decides to ask later as the residents start filing in. Unexpectedly, the residents include one ghoul. Deacon shows up as well, still in animated conversation with Marcus. His hand rests on Marcus’ knee as they sit together.

Danse sits on Deacon’s other side, tongue heavy in his mouth. He mechanically chews his way through dinner, adamantly avoiding eye contact. He is peripherally aware of the conversations going on around him, including several clusters of mutants exchanging rapid hand-signals, but does not lift his gaze from his plate.

Deacon nudges him with his elbow. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I unwittingly opened hostilities with Keene.”

Which is a clear enough sentence, in Danse’s opinion, but Deacon purses his lips in an annoyingly familiar way. It’s the same expression he wears when Danse quizzes him from the word of the day calendar. “You pissed off Keene?”

Marcus chuckles. “Most humans do. Just don’t stare, and be nice to Lily.”

“She keeps calling me Jimmy.”

Marcus sighs. “Her memory’s not so good these days.”

Danse has the uncomfortable feeling that Keene and Marcus have repeated that phrase a lot.

“She does remember new faces, eventually. Just go along with her and be kind.”

“I wasn’t planning _not_ to,” Danse mutters into his chili.

Deacon takes seconds on everything, including a few daring attempts to ‘steal’ potatoes from the mayor’s plate, which Marcus indulges with a laugh. Danse stares blankly at his empty bowl, wishing that he had that same easy charm, then exiles himself to the dishwashing brigade. This brings him back into unfortunate proximity with Keene, so he excuses himself again to wander the worn wooden hallways. There is a medical clinic on the main floor, and Danse wonders what ailments super mutants might suffer. There is also a gameroom with checkers, cards, and a few pinball machines. Danse then ventures upstairs, but the long hallway appears to lead to the living quarters, so he leaves before he can be accused of snooping.

By now, dinner has mostly finished and Deacon’s sitting in Marcus’ lap. It appears Deacon will be spending the night with Marcus, and Danse has no desire to go to an empty room, so he circles back to the gameroom for a round of pinball. The clatter of the metal ball ricocheting off the pins and wooden flippers proves a welcome distraction from the monotony of his own thoughts, until a vague awareness of a line queueing behind him leads him to consciously fumble and pass his turn to the next person. He then slips out the front.

Nighttime in the mountains is really quite lovely. There’s the distant glow of Vegas, but also the stark and elemental bleakness of the dark sky studded with pricks of starlight, like tears through a heavenly firmament.

Danse allows his breath to go out slow. When he breathes in, the cold air prickles the inside of his nostrils.

It takes him a while to realize that Keene is there as well. Leaning against a wall, taking slow sips from an amber bottle that looks ridiculously small in his hands. Strange, that such a big man can blend into the background. But once seen, he is impossible to unsee.

Danse tries not to stare.

Instead, he’s hyperconscious of Keene’s slow rasp of breath, the way he distorts the space around him. Like he’s so massive that he weighs heavy on the fabric of existence, like the sharp scent of pine and fresh snow and sweet yucca, like the way that Danse’s tongue fills his own mouth and his throat’s heavy with desire. Keene fills his own skin the way that Maxson filled his coat—

Keene laughs, low and dirty, and Danse can’t help looking as Keene curls his thumb to caress the bottle, bringing it to his lips. Keene’s gaze locks with Danse’s as he very deliberately takes a sip, then licks the rim. His broad tongue is dark against the edge of the bottle, and Danse’s lips part in sympathy, empathy, one of the two or maybe both because he would like nothing more than to open his mouth and swallow—

“You want to fuck, or you just like watching?”

Danse could boil in his shame. Shame for being so blatant, shame for wanting someone who so obviously despises him. Plus the sheer rational terror of the way his cock twitches in response. This must be some sort of suicidal impulse, immolation by desire.

“See, I don’t like being stared at,” Keene says, in a low growl that might be menace but might also be just how he _talks_ , with those spine-rumbling bass notes and the syllables dragged across his teeth. His breath is more crisp than sweet, flavored with apples. “But I don’t mind fucking humans. As long as you ask for it.”

Danse has never fucked a mutant. Never fucked anyone who wasn’t human. Never fucked anyone he wasn’t in a _relationship_ with, for that matter.

All he can think about is Cutler, poor Cutler.

But Cutler is better than M—

Danse bites down the stab of memory and gives a quick nod of his head. History’s repeating itself, one vast and ominous circle. But if he’s going to bed with monsters, at least it’ll be by choice.

Keene chuckles, crossing his arms. He leans back, somehow looming even taller as his lips curve into a smile. His teeth are startlingly white, even in the shadows. “Out loud, human.”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir.”

Voice low, taunting, Keene says, “Yes, what? What do you want?”

Danse shuts his eyes, as if he can shield himself from Keene’s contempt. “Please, sir. Fuck me. If you’d like.”

“God, it’s more fun if you act like you’re _willing_ at least,” Keene mutters. “But I can work with that.” He cuffs Danse upside the head, and turns away with a heavy stride. Danse cracks his eyes open, sees Keene looking over his shoulder, and belatedly realizes that he’s supposed to _follow_. He scrambles quickly after Keene.

The other Jacobstown residents are still up and around, playing checkers or pulling worn volumes from the communal bookshelf—and oh, they have a _library_ , a small one, but even the Prydwen didn’t have a _library_ just for pleasure—and surely they’re not watching Danse any more than he’s watching them, but people can see. People can see _him_ , following Keene. He keeps his gaze fixed on the rock of Keene’s hip, the shift and pull of fabric across the man’s ass. Surely it’s obvious that this is an illicit sexual thrill, that there’s no other reason for Danse to follow this man that he’s not sure he even likes, that he knows doesn’t even like _him_.

Or maybe that’s why he feels free to follow, knowing that Keene doesn’t care. That Keene won’t even pretend to care, when it's all over.

Danse has a brief glimpse of Keene’s room—massive bed, dresser, an incongruous full-length mirror and a few books stacked on the nightstand—before he pulls out a strip of cloth and places it over Danse’s eyes. Danse opens his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe just shock, because he doesn’t think he _minds_ being blindfolded but he wouldn’t have _asked_ for it—but Keene speaks before he can.

“If you want to fuck, this is how we do it. You’re pretty enough, but I don’t like staring.”

Danse swallows, conscious of the man’s size, of the heat radiating from his body. Jacobstown is so _cold_ , but Keene’s a living furnace.

And Keene thinks he’s _pretty_.

There’s silence, and once again—late, so late to every realization, it seems—Danse realizes that Keene’s waiting for a response. “Yes, sir.”

Keene chuckles, knotting the blindfold in place. His fingers brush Danse’s ear, too brisk to be gentle even as Danse struggles not to lean into the touch. “Haven’t heard _that_ in a while. I like it.”

Foolish pride blooms in Danse’s chest, almost as warm as Keene’s hand on his cheek. Keene orders him to strip, and Danse does so with alacrity. He undoes his boots by feel, shakes off his trousers with his underwear and removes the rest in an awkward bundle. He would normally fold his things before laying them down, but Keene doesn’t seem like the type who enjoys waiting, so Danse drops them in a pile and awaits further instruction. He makes himself stand at parade rest; legs straight, weight equally distributed between the heels and the balls of his feet. Hands at the small of his back, centered where the belt would be. Thumbs interlocked, palm of the right hand facing out. Focusing on the minutia of position rather than the uneasy thrill of hearing Keene disrobe, of hearing cloth catch over skin, of hearing buttons unfastening.

“Sit.”

Danse sits, so quickly that he tumbles onto the bed, but Keene hooks a hand under his arm to straighten him up. This close—maybe it’s Danse’s own heartbeat in his ear, synthetic blood pounding. Maybe it’s the warm-human smell of Keene and the way _that_ hasn’t changed, no matter how much else has changed between mutants and humans, muddled with the scent of apple cider. Maybe it’s just nerves, but he feels every hair prickle on end, from the back of his neck down to the coarse shivers on his forearms.

“You like to suck cock, human?”

“Yes sir,” Danse says. Too quick again it seems, because Keene laughs and _oh_ even Keene’s contempt is a beautiful thing, throbbing beneath his skin and making Danse feel hard and liquid all at the same time, just nerves and circuitry around a core of molten _want_.

“Then open up.”

Danse opens his mouth, but Keene only brushes his cock against Danse’s lips—a fleeting hint of warmth and vastness. Danse can’t help a small sound in his throat, disappointment, opens wider—then nearly chokes on the sudden rush of cock in his mouth. Keene’s _huge_ , stretching Danse’s lips taut, almost aching. Danse tries to protect Keene from his teeth, but he can’t curl his lips enough to shield his incisors, and Keene doesn’t seem to mind even when Danse scrapes him with his molars. Perhaps Keene’s thicker skin protects him, so Danse tries to relax, trusting that Keene will tell him if he’s doing something wrong. His tongue automatically finds that soft curve under the glans, no foreskin—was Keene Jewish too? Or was he a Vault-dweller, once?—as his hands go up to cup around the base of his shaft. Fists stacked over each other, one buried against Keene’s hairless hips and the other providing a backstop for Danse’s mouth as he sucks. He wishes he could _see_ the man he’s sucking, so that he could have a clear memory when he inevitably jacks off thinking about this, but for now he tries to memorize the warm leather and musk taste of Keene, the way he can’t touch his fingers around Keene’s cock, the thick curve of Keene as he slides towards the back of Danse’s throat.

Keene goes fast, maybe a little too fast, but Danse likes that edge as well. Danse is an object to be used; no words or demands of his own, just giving service with his mouth, his hands. An enormous hand rests on Danse’s skull, and for a moment Danse thinks it’s affection, that maybe he’s done a good enough job to deserve a pat on the head. But Keene adjusts his grip, fingers across the back of Danse’s head and guiding him deeper, harder, faster. Danse gasps around the edges of his mouth, an obscene moan even as his vision blots in white bursts under the blindfold, as Keene pushes into his throat and Danse gags, a thick cough of saliva and mucus and—

Keene pulls out, groaning. He sounds almost angry, words through gritted teeth. “You want to stop?”

Danse shakes his head, lips loose and mouth open. Words fail. Everything’s hazy, soft. His own erection feels like something distant, belonging to someone else. He’s supposed to please Keene, and if Keene won’t let him, then—

“Please, sir,” he whispers, eyelashes wet beneath the blindfold. What a wreck. He couldn’t please his commanding officer, and now he can’t even please an abomination. “Please. Let me suck you.”

“You beg pretty,” Keene croons, leaning in so his breath rasps across Danse’s forehead. Danse might just ignite if Keene comes any closer. “I like that. Beg some more.”

“Please, sir. Let me suck you. I—I promise I’ll do a good job.” The words are foolish, wheedling, and Danse burns with the shame of it. Shame that he’s begging, shame that he’s so bad at it. “I’ll lick every inch of you, balls to taint. I’ll swallow you down. I’ll—” He swallows, remembering Maxson’s favorite. “I’ll let you come on my face, if you want.” Fuck, fuck. He never liked it even when it was Maxson doing it, but somehow that makes it better, makes it worse, to offer it to Keene.

“What a good cocksucker,” Keene purrs, and Danse allows himself one fierce burst of elation.

The next question stops Danse cold.

“You hungry for any cock, or is it just muties that get you going?”

Danse wheezes, unsure what answer would please Keene.

“I have been commended for my oral skills,” he manages stiffly, leaning on formality even now that dignity’s fled. “I never had the opportunity to, ah, _perform_ this service on an—” _Don’t say ‘abomination’ don’t say ‘abomination.’_ “—mutant.”

“You still haven’t _finished_ this service. Open up.”

Danse opens his mouth, relaxes his jaw—and Keene goes slower this time, easing over Danse’s lips and across his tongue, letting Danse make the final push that brings Keene fully into his mouth. Danse wraps his hands back around Keene’s cock, and it’s easier now to fall into a rhythm, to let his slippery hands twist and rub, to create the soft suction in the back of his mouth, moaning as Keene’s groans rise in pitch. Danse can’t help flinching as his teeth scrape Keene’s dick, but Keene either doesn’t feel it or doesn’t mind, because he grunts a warning that he’s gonna come, and Danse speeds up, trying to coax him over the edge, torn between fear and hope that Keene will make him swallow, that Danse will have to _ingest_ , but Keene pulls out with a wet pop, suddenly out of Danse’s mouth and Danse’s hands and leaving Danse shivering on the bed. He hears the wet slap of skin on skin, then a hot rush of liquid bursts across his face, larger than any release that Danse has felt. Some of it hits the blindfold, but most of it sprays down his cheeks and mouth, mingling with his own saliva.

Danse drips shame and semen, trembling. This is such a thorough violation of every Brotherhood code, and if anyone had seen him…

“What do you want now?” Keene sounds relaxed, almost benevolent as he creaks onto the bed.

Oh. _Oh_.

Danse hadn’t expected reciprocation, but he already knows his answer.

“Would you fuck me? Please?” Hastily, unsure of whether it would be rude to demand another hard-on so soon, he adds, “With your fingers?”

“You forgot ‘sir.’”

Danse would laugh if his heart weren’t drumming up his throat. “Would you fuck me, sir?”

“Ass up, on your knees.”

Danse scrambles to obey, rolling sideways. The lumpy mattress dips beneath his weight, but dips even more, groaning, as Keene takes a position behind him. Danse hadn’t thought to bring lube, but it turns out that Keene has enough. More than enough, one thick finger easing down the crack of his ass and dripping lube down his balls. Danse leans on his forearms, head braced into the pillow, and shivers as the cold liquid—oil? No, more ‘squish’ than grease—is worked around his ass, as Keene presses against the rim of his hole.

Danse wants to tell him to slow down, to be gentle, but oh—there’s a part of him that craves it rough, too. Keene presses, then _pushes_ , one long slide that has Danse reeling with the shock of entry before his body clamps down on it, as Keene chuckles and starts rocking his finger in and out, down to the knuckle and sliding back. Danse lets out a whimper as he spreads his legs, as he lowers his chest and tries to keep his ass and belly up and aimed towards those long strokes, welcoming the weight of Keene’s finger.

“That’s just one finger. You want another, human?”

The reply is automatic, unthinking. “Yes, sir.”

“You want my cock?”

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” Danse blurts. Never mind that Keene just came, that Danse is still wearing the evidence on his face, because maybe mutants have a decreased refractory period along with all their other physical changes, and maybe all this baseless speculation is just white noise over his own begging, because Keene _likes_ begging, and Danse likes pleasing Keene, so he begs, “Please, please sir.” He hates the way his voice catches, hates the way it comes out in a low whine. But Keene gives a pleased hum, and that’s encouragement to try again. “Please, sir. Fuck me. Your finger’s good, but I want—” Another finger joins the first, an aching stretch that the cool lube manages to soothe even as it warms to match his body. “I want more—oh. _Oh._ Oh _damn_.”

Keene thrusts forward, back. Crooks his fingers and keeps fucking him, slow and gentle. Impossibly slow, making Danse have to rut against him to get the friction that he craves, but Keene places his other hand between Danse’s shoulders and presses him into the mattress, forcing him to remain still as Keene takes his time. Danse squirms against the sheets, biting his cheek and whimpering anyway as Keene pushes both fingers all the way in and scissors them apart. And it’s like there’s a space inside Danse that’s begging to be filled, or maybe it’s that Keene is _making_ a space, and demanding that it beg for him. Danse mashes his face into the pillow, Keene’s come sticky across his cheeks as he shudders for more, but suddenly those wonderful fingers are _gone_.

“You still want my cock? Then grab your ankles.”

Danse reaches down, gripping tight. Thumbs curled under the tendon, palms sweaty against the hard knob of the joint.

He thought he knew how big Keene was, a visceral knowledge from having the man in his mouth. But as he feels that first press of Keene’s cock against his ass, he wonders if he made an error in judgment. Mouths are one thing, but assholes…

 _Please, stop_ , he means to say, but what comes out is, “Please. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, sir. Please.” Because he’s going to end up wrecked, one way or another. Because he’s already _been_ wrecked. Because of all the decisions that have shaped his life, that led him from Rivet City scavver to joining the Brotherhood and engaging in the basest form of fraternization, surely this isn’t the worst—

“Say it like you mean it,” Keene growls. At ease, as if practiced. His deep rumble precisely calibrated to Danse’s core of want. “Say it like you _need_ me.”

And Danse needs this, needs _him_. Needs to obliterate everything that came before, so he begs, and begs, and he must have done a good enough job because Keene’s clock slides into him. Slow at first, taunting, but once it breaches the slippery ring of his ass then the rest just slides in, a warm rush of lube and flesh. Danse is full, achingly so, fuller than he’s ever been. Like he can _feel_ his own pulse resonate inside him, heartbeat drumming off Keene’s cock. It's a knife-edge of pain and desire, a solid hurt that still feels better than anything he can imagine.

“God, you’re tight.” Keene groans, easing in, and in—and Danse feels Keene’s skin on the back of his thighs, Keene’s torso arched over him. Danse is just so _small_ against him, enfolded in the other man’s body even as the man’s cock fills him up. “Nervous?”

Danse whispers, “Yes, sir.”

Keene goes still. “Want to stop?” Soft, incongruous with his earlier words.

Danse can’t reconcile the difference, and remains silent.

When Keene starts pulling out, Danse blurts, “No. I don’t want to stop, sir. Please.”

Keene snorts, voice rough once more. “Keep begging, then.” Slowly, Keene starts rocking his hips. His weight presses over Danse, a warmth and gravity that Danse can feel even while in his shadow.

Danse swallows. Licks his lips, tasting salt and come. “Yes, sir. Please. Fuck me. You’re—you’re better than—than—” His voice fails, choked down by shock and desire, but he’s appalled at the truth of it, the way his body relaxes now as Keene continues fucking him, as they slide into a slow rhythm of hips and skin and easing into one another, the way his own cock chafes against the blanket as he bucks against Keene, as he tries to open himself up even more. “Please, sir. You’re so _big_ , and I’ve never—I’ve never had—”

Words fail. So he tries to prove it with his body, pushing back against Keene so Keene’s balls slap his thighs, so their bodies crash together in a cacophony of creaking springs and swaying bed, so the headboard slams the wall and creates a percussive beat as Danse tries, fails, tries again to find words beyond “yes, yes, please” and “sir, yes, sir” and ends up repeating it like a chant, a mantra, some bizarre prayer to the gods of free will and strange bedfellows. His sweat sticks his hair to his skin, trickles down his forehead and he’s panting for breath, wheezing beneath the weight of Keene’s body and he _comes_ almost by surprise, his balls high and tight between his legs and spurting across the blankets, smeared into his belly as Keene continues pounding him into the mattress. He clenches, and that must be the final trigger for Keene because Keene just _pushes_ , hips flush with Danse’s ass and releasing himself in a rush of wet heat.

Danse can’t even feel Keene start to soften before pulling out. He’s cold now, skin prickling after losing the warm comfort of another body. He lays mute on the bed, feeling himself clench, unclench. Feeling the spend dribbling out of him, down his thighs and mixing with lube and sweat. The come across his face is tacky, and he’d like nothing better than to wash it off but feels like he can’t move until he receives the order.

Keene gets dressed, more slowly than he had undressed in the first place. Cloth slides across cloth, leather creaking and a few buckles jingling in place. He finally pulls the blindfold off Danse.

The dimly-lit room seems bright and strange. Ghostly, shadows ethereal against the dark. Keene’s dull purple skin and his red scarf are bright flares, warm and rich, something to watch for as the world swims back into focus.

“Don’t stare. It’s rude,” Keene mutters.

Danse averts his eyes, spine stiff as Keene glugs water from a canteen, then blots more on the blindfold. He does this a few times, then passes the cloth to Danse.

Danse blinks at the damp cloth, stupefied.

“Wipe your face. Unless you _want_ to wear my come out the door.”

“You’re allowing me to wash?”

Keene rolls his eyes. “No, asshole. I offered you a wet cloth just to take it away from you.”

Danse’s thoughts are suspended in honey, molasses. Going far too slow for his own stupid tongue as he stumbles across the words. “My—” ‘Commanding officer’ makes Danse feel guilty, and ‘lover’ cuts too close to the bone, to arteries still bleeding. “—ex did not approve.” Wearing Maxson’s seed had been a mark of service, and if Danse was too eager to wipe himself clean, then—

“Your ex was an asshole.”

Danse bites his tongue, unwilling to argue, and wipes his face.

There’s no offer of a cuddle, but Danse wasn’t expecting one. He wouldn’t even know how to _ask_ for one. Maxson had been generous, when he was in the mood. They could go from rough sex to tender minstrations, but Maxson hadn’t always had the time for more. It was understood as just another aspect of their relationship. Maxson had responsibilities to the entire Brotherhood. Maxson held himself responsible for knowing when Danse needed more time and attention, and it would have been selfish of Danse to demand more than Maxson was able to give.

So Danse wipes his face, then his thighs, settling for the remnants of Keene’s warmth on the mattress. Keene watches in silence, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. His gaze prickles across Danse’s skin, making Danse fumble his buttons as he dresses.

“What’s your name, human?”

Danse looks up, trousers still half-way up his ass. For the first time, their eyes meet without Keene’s gaze turning into a glare.

“Danse, sir.”

. . .

Danse walks bowlegged the next morning, but Deacon has a suspiciously similar waddle and a beatific smile. They eat in the dining hall again, sausages and flapjacks with mesquite syrup, and if any of the mutants are staring or judging, Danse can’t tell. Deacon then spends an entirely unnecessary hour playing with Rex—”Testing his reflexes! His energy! Making sure his coat’s glossy and his appetite’s good!”—before they leave. But as Rex is, yes, a _very_ good boy, Danse finds it difficult to mind.

When Marcus bids them goodbye, Deacon launches himself at the man, legs wrapped around Marcus’ hips and clinging to his neck and shoulders for a breathless kiss.

Danse averts his eyes.

Deacon whistles as they walk down the mountain, while Danse mulls over his own thoughts. It’s been years since he left the Brotherhood, and he wouldn’t have expected his first sexual encounter with—with a _person_ , not his hand, to be with a _mutant_.

“Hey, did you know why that place is called Jacobstown?” Deacon asks, cutting through the metal grind of realization.

Danse shakes his head.

“Marcus said that way back, he got in a fight with a Brotherhood paladin. Pledged himself to the extermination of mutants, rah rah, power armor, you know the type.” Deacon hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, bouncing with every step. “They had this big old brawl, lasted _ages_ , finally gave up and started laughing over how stupid it all was. They ended up as friends and founded a town together, where humans, mutants, and ghouls could all live. It dried out eventually, people moved on, but they proved it could _work_. So when Marcus came out here, he named the new town after his old friend.”

“Is there a lesson here, Deacon?”

Deacon chuckles. “No lesson, just history. But we learn from the past, right?”

Danse snorts.

They keep walking. The lingering frost crunches beneath their boots, grinding into the dull earth. A bird cocks its head, examining them as they pass. Danse watches it, noting the spotted tail and white line across the eyes. He can still recite the Codex—it's etched in him like a name on pre-war dog tags—but cannot distinguish wren from plover. The depths of his ignorance still staggers him.

“Deacon?”

“Yeah?”

“How long—how long until it stops hurting?” Danse keeps his gaze on the trail ahead of them, the swaying of leaves and branches.

Deacon—maddening, infuriating Deacon—sighs. Danse can see Deacon’s shadow raise his arm, awkwardly extended as if to pat Danse’s shoulder, but it mercifully drops before making contact. “As long as it takes.”

Danse swallows, throat tight. “It’s stupid, to miss something—someone—that hurt so much.”

A long silence, with only their boots crunching on the ground.

A bird trills in the distance.

Finally, Deacon sighs. “Guess we’re all a little stupid, then.”


	2. In Which Danse Gets Fisted

Danse and Deacon split a pack of Fancy Lads when they get back to Freeside, powdered sugar still dusting their mouths when Deacon reports to the King. The King is pleased, and pleasing the King turns out to be a good way to earn other small jobs and errands around Freeside. They end up playing guides for tourists, plus delivering letters to Westside and Novac and doing odd jobs for the Followers. The Followers of the Apocalypse have numerous volunteer opportunities, but volunteering does not pay the rent. Still, Danse finds himself studying the calendar of events, and signs up for a children’s lunch and storytelling.

It’s not getting them any closer to the Pacific, but Deacon seems intent on going native. And after adding a local panaderia to their daily breakfast routine, Danse is inclined to do the same.

“Mick and Ralph need to deliver parts out to Nellis," Deacon says around a mouthful of pink-topped pastry, flicking crumbs off their 'they/them' pin. "Then I’ve got a date with the King, so you should probably go meet Fisto—”

Danse sputters.

Deacon grins wolfishly, the light catching the silver and ginger stubble along their jaw. “You _really_ need to stop doing that. No, better yet, don’t. It’s fun to watch you spit.”

"Why are we even friends?" Danse mutters around his half-eaten pan dulce.

"Oh, I've always been your friend, don't deny it."

“I am happy for your romantic endeavors, but fail to see why this necessitates that I visit Fisto,” Danse says stiffly. Deacon’s joking with him. Probably. But Danse is never quite _sure_ , and even though that undoubtedly propels him to greater foolishness, he can’t stand the uncertainty.

“Because,” Deacon says, leaning over to knuckle on Danse’s shoulder, “I’d worry about you. Staying up all night, waiting like a sad puppy.” The sickly-sweet tone tells Danse that Deacon _was_ joking after all, but it’s too late to pretend that Danse knew all along.

So, mustering what’s left of his dignity, Danse proclaims, “I most certainly would _not_. I am _volunteering_.”

Which he _is_ , and not just because he keeps missing Harkness at the Wrangler.

Danse likes children well enough to be utterly resigned to the fact that very few like _him_ , but he still hopes they’ll enjoy the Followers’ weekly story session. He won’t be reading to them—that privilege is reserved for the regular storyteller—but he helps prepare their lunch. Danse has to be taught how to do this, as the cactus pads look inedible to his untrained eyes.

“Here. Like this,” says his teacher, a short man with purple hair and chipped nail polish. He holds the nopales carefully in one gloved hand, trimming away the spines. Danse imitates him—”no, other way, hold it by stem”—well enough to be taught the next step, scoring a crosshatch in the pad, and then they’re passed to another volunteer to be oiled and seasoned.

There are no further misadventures, meaning that the food is brought out on time for the hungry children. The storyteller himself passes out boiled sweets from a large tin, and Danse twitches to recognize Harkness.

Harkness gets a plate, and Danse joins him.

“So you found me.” Harkness’ voice is flat as he stabs his nopales.

Danse hesitates. “I wasn’t looking for you, but—I can leave. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe not this time, but James and Beatrix talk, you know.” Harkness sighs. “Why do you keep showing up where I work?”

“Because you’re the only person I know who also knows that they’re a...a synth.” Danse’s voice drops on the last word, habit more than fear. It’s crackle and static at the base of his skull, like a scar he can’t scratch.

“And why is that important?”

“Because I don’t know how much is me, and how much is programmed.”

Harkness scrapes his fork across the plate, then sets it down. Without raising his voice, he asks, “Do you think that the Railroad would have programmed you to join the Brotherhood?”

Danse bites his cheek. “No. But what if it was a glitch?”

“Self determination is never a malfunction,” Harkness says wearily. “Are you trying to blame the Railroad for the choices you made?”

Which would have been all too easy a few years ago. “No. But I don’t know how to change, if I don’t even know who I am. Or was.”

Harkness toys with his coffee mug, but doesn’t lift it from the table. “Memory is malleable. Even for humans.” He shifts in his seat, pulling a knife from his pocket. It’s a long folding knife with a horn handle, worn smooth with use. As he opens it, rippling patterns in the steel catch the light. “I was told this was my father’s knife. I had a knife, but no father. So it _became_ my father’s knife. Even if that first memory of my father was...programmed, as you say, this was still given to me by someone who wanted me to have that memory, and made it a good one. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still my father’s knife.”

“Even if it’s not true?”

“Maybe the truth isn’t as important as what we want to believe. Are you trying to look for who you were before the memory wipe?”

“Would it help?”

“I don’t know.” Harkness gives a tight-lipped smile. “I didn’t know I was a synth until about fifteen years ago. I don’t think it mattered, not to who I am. Who I was. But it made me realize I’d done a lot of bad shit, even if I didn’t remember it.” He folds the knife shut, slipping it back into his pocket.

“I find that hard to believe.” Danse shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms. “You’ve always possessed great integrity.”

“That you’ve known. I’ve listened to recordings taken before the memory wipes, and I was a Courser. It was my job to hunt down runaways. And maybe I lost my memories when I became Harkness, but that doesn’t mean I lost responsibility for what I did.” Harkness shrugs, finally lifting his coffee to take a sip. It’s ‘coffee’ by convention only, smelling more of coyote tobacco than coffee beans. “Maybe I can’t be forgiven for the things I’ve done. But that shouldn’t stop me from trying to do good anyways.”

Danse waits, expecting Harkness to say more, but Harkness only drinks his coffee.

It's a long silence.

When the mug is empty, Danse says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I missed seeing a familiar face. I’ll stop bothering you at the Wrangler.”

Harkness snorts, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he flashes a smile. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s fine. I think…” His voice trails off, and he shrugs. “I’m not interested in apologies, or trying to make you feel better about what you’ve done. I don’t know if I can just _forgive_ you for what happened to Rivet City. But I don’t think I hate you, if that’s what you’re asking.” His smile tilts, turns crooked. “And I missed seeing a familiar face. For what it’s worth.”

Which is more than Danse deserves, but he’ll take it anyway.

“What happened to your boyfriend?” Harkness asks.

The sudden nausea is a fist around Danse’s throat. His ears roar, static in his skull. How the hell did Harkness know about _Maxson_ —

Harkness winces, laying his hand on Danse’s shoulder. The touch is too heavy for Danse to process, like he might crumple inwards from it. “I am sorry. Truly. Cutler was a good man.”

Danse swallows down guilt and bile. Of course. Of _course_ Harkness was thinking about Cutler.

“He deserved better than he got,” he manages to say. Which is still true, for both of them.

Maybe it’s blasphemy, that Danse still can’t speak his name.

Danse was not with the Brotherhood when they destroyed the Followers outpost, just as he wasn’t when they destroyed the Slog— _tarberry gore, the smell of ash and mildew_ —and once again, he’s just trying to pick up the pieces left behind, make up for the mess he’s made up until then. So he keeps volunteering with the Followers, and if Deacon is surprised by his sudden commitment to community service, he hides it under his easy smile and mirrored sunglasses.

And now that Danse has permission to visit Harkness, he tries not to be a pest about it. It’s Freeside, and it’s just outside of Vegas, so Danse has plenty of options for entertainment. There are any variety of casinos, restaurants, and performances meant to entice the weary traveler, or even the bored local. But the Wrangler is familiar, and has the added bonus of occasionally seeing Harkness during his shifts.

The ghoul in black leather that turned him away last time cocks her chin when Danse comes back, but at Harkness’ nod, she shrugs and says, “Glad you found him.”

“He’s a glutton for punishment.”

She grins, a death’s-head smile across her desiccated features. “Ah. Just my type.”

Danse peeks at her, from the top of her impressive cowboy hat down to the worn leathers of her jacket, the gleaming silver skull belt-buckle and the dull spurs jangling on her boots. “And you are…?”

“For hire, if you’re asking.” She leans on the bar, and he can’t help but notice the thickly corded muscles of her forearms. Most body fat just withers away on ghouls, emphasizing whatever musculature they already possess.

“And what exactly do you do?

“I’m a student of physical and mental anguish,” she says. Her voice is warm gravel, caressing his ear. “I find mortification of the flesh especially intriguing. Paddling, cock and ball torture, tit torture, orgasm denial, bondage...and that’s just what I _like_. I’m willing to do others, most of them negotiable.”

Danse blinks. And blinks again.

“Did I break him already?”

“Forgive him, we both came from a very small town,” Harkness says drily. “He has a hard-on for authority—” How _dare_ he say that, that’s _Deacon’s_ line, which opens up the horrifying possibility that the two have been _talking_. Or the even more horrifying possibility that Danse's proclivities are actually that obvious. “—so he might be interested when he recovers. First time’s on me, to show no hard feelings.”

“First you told me to go fuck Fisto, and now you’re…?!”

Harkness shrugs, palms wide. “Obviously the robot wasn’t your type.”

Belatedly, Danse realizes that Harkness is _teasing_ him. Except it’s too late to laugh along with the joke, because maybe he _would_ like to be tied up and made to feel small again, to be hurt in the kinds of ways that bring satisfaction. And maybe—most importantly—it’ll prove that Danse isn’t who he once was.

“Er. Ma’am?”

Her grin widens. “My name is Beatrix Russell, but ‘ma’am’ works fine.”

Danse flushes, heat itching at the base of his neck. Would she have lived at the Slog, if she had ever…? “If I were to...take you up on your interests, would you be amenable to instructing me?”

“That’s the first time I ever heard it put _that_ way,” Harkness mutters, but he slides a string of caps to Beatrix and she tucks them in a pocket of her coat. She cups her hand, waggling her fingers at Harkness, and then Harkness laughs and slides another, smaller string of caps to her. “Ah, right. Can’t forget the tip.” He’s smiling though, and Beatrix’s grin can’t possibly get any wider as she nods, beckoning Danse with one finger.

Beatrix leads him upstairs with a running commentary on her rules and expectations. Danse listens, mouth dry, watching the way her spurs clink as her boots hit each step, the way her thumbs loop casually into her belt, elbows loose. The way her shoulders flex as she rounds the corner, opening the door… “You don’t touch unless I tell you, and no part of you ever enters any part of me. I don’t play without a safeword, but if I hear ‘no’ I’m still gonna slow down and check in. You okay with that?”

Danse mumbles assent, looking around the room while trying not to gawk.

Beatrix chuckles, tilting her head. “It’s fine to stare. Most first-timers do. Want me to go over anything?”

“What’s, ah. What’s the usual?” His gaze flits over the leather cross, the wooden pillory. A wooden board with a variety of paddles and floggers set in neat rows, some studded with rivets, some cut through with holes. A bullwhip. A bow-shaped curve of wood, made of two pieces that appear screwed together. There’s a hole between the joins, though Danse struggles to think what would fit. A wrist, perhaps?

“Depends on the person. What are you into?” She flicks her hand dismissively at the equipment. “If you don’t know the toys, tell me the sensation.”

It feels strange, telling someone what he wants. Asking for it, rather than waiting for it to be given. So he looks to the side, studying the paddles. He counts the metal studs, the loops of leather in the grips. Like he is outside his body, distancing himself from the act of articulation. He likes to be small, he likes to be hurt, he likes to feel the slap of skin and he likes things in his ass. That’s all he’s ever had.

“I can do that. Tie you up, bend you over, beat your ass until you can’t sit.”

His cheeks flare. “And, ah. Blindfold me? Please?”

Beatrix grins. “My pleasure. Do you have a word you like? No? Fine, let’s play traffic lights. Red for stop, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing, no questions asked. Yellow to slow down and check in. Green if you want to keep going.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s never seen a working traffic light—at least not one that was actually directing traffic—and wonders if she remembers the world before the bombs, or if she picked it up over the years. A small part of him wonders how many collective centuries worth of knowledge had been lost when the Brotherhood razed the Slog, but the guilt’s worn smooth. It no longer stabs on every step, and is buried beneath Beatrix’s brisk directions.

Danse is loose-limbed and clear-headed as he follows orders, as he strips himself down for her. Boots in the corner, socks tucked into the heel. Trousers folded, underwear on top, shirt folded over _that_ with a strange sort of modesty. As if despite Danse being naked, cock out and ass bare, Beatrix seeing his faded grey boxers might be too much for both their sensibilities. He bends his head for her, allowing her to tie the blindfold in place. He catches a whiff of broc flower and soap, sarsaparilla and leather. Clean and dry, baked with the sort of dusty warmth that Danse has come to associate with the Mojave.

“You have nice tits,” she says, almost casually. It’s not praise, exactly, but Danse melts anyways. She raps his chest, a dull thump against the fleshy pectoral. Her hand is dry and slightly rough, like old leather that hasn’t been oiled. “You into tit torture?”

“I. Uh. Have never tried, ma’am.” ‘Torture’ sounds intriguing and terrifying, making his breath rasp his lungs. He shifts uncomfortably, aware of his cock dangling between his legs, soft and ridiculous. He’d look just as ridiculous hard, too, but at least he can’t see Beatrix’s face, can’t see if she’s judging him.

“Hm. Maybe some other time, then. But I’d love to give them a big old pinch and _twist_.” Her nails rake his chest, scraping down towards the nipple. Drawing together like a hungry mouth.

He shivers, flinches. Not entirely sure whether that’s fear or excitement, but either way it makes Beatrix laugh, low and dirty, and his chest flutters with foolish pride—if she’s laughing, she’s happy, he has brought her some form of joy.

“I’ll tie your hands, now. Wrists together, palms facing each other. Good, good.” The hemp rubs his skin, catching the hairs on his wrist. Beatrix continues talking to him, warm and soothing, as she ties them together, working her way up his forearm and sliding a finger between the knots and his skin. Danse flinches as it draws tight across the bone, then tries to hide it, but Beatrix hisses between her teeth and eases up anyway. “You’re allowed to talk, you know. Allowed to say ‘no.’ Do you mind marks?”

“Yes,” Danse says quickly, memory blooming livid reds and purples. It was his fault, back then—his fault for not checking in, for not telling Maxson, for not giving enough feedback. He knows Maxson never meant to hurt him, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t _hurt_.

“Kneel now, right there—good boy, good boy,” she croons, guiding him by the elbow. He follows her, blind and trusting, and kneels where she tells him. There’s something soft on the floor, padding his knees as he leans forward, arms in front of him. The bed creaks beneath his weight, and he hears the fluffing of a pillow before she slides it in front of him, over his hands and under his chin. “So pretty with your ass out like that. I bet you’d look good with your balls tied up, connected to your wrists. So every time you flinched, it would jostle. Tug ‘em nice and tight.”

Danse whimpers.

“Is that a yes or a no, boy?”

“I—I don’t know, ma’am. What do you want it to be?”

“Wrong question, soldier. We’ll call this a ‘yellow’ and talk about it when you come back.”

When, not if. Somehow, that reassures him. Certainty settles across his shoulders with a comforting weight.

Behind him, her steps creak across the room, scuffing the wooden boards with her swagger. The snap of latex, the wet squirt of lube. He shivers with the warmth of anticipation, drawing his knees apart. Relaxing. Waiting.

“I’m going to check your ass, now,” she says calmly, one hand on his back, fingers spread—and he wants to arch into that warmth, rub up against it like a stray dog. Eager for her approval. “One finger, now. And—” Beatrix laughs, delighted surprise as her finger slides in, so slick that there’s no resistance, only the sudden feel of her inside him. “You weren’t kidding about liking things up your ass! Goddamn, I could put my whole _fist_ in here.”

Danse shudders, clenching—and she rocks inside him, second finger sliding in and scissoring apart, rough and wet. Fucking him harder, knuckles slamming into his taint, rocking his whole body into the mattress. Body limp, mouth slack. What he wouldn’t give for her, for her whimsy. What he wouldn’t give to be a puppet on her wrist, to feel the strength of her arm inside him…

“Want to try that now? No? Later?” She laughs at Danse’s enthusiastic mumble, a confused mash of _maybe, yes, later?_ and pulling out with a slick squish of lube. He hears that latex snap again, gloves coming off. “We can do that later. But let’s get a toy for you.”

Danse gasps as cool metal presses against his ass. He flinches, hole tight and constricting.

“Color?”

It takes a few beats to recognize that Beatrix is checking in, and he struggles for words. “Yellow, ma’am? I didn’t—I wasn’t expecting it to be cold.”

“Do you want to stop or use a different toy?”

He clenches his eyes beneath the blindfold, groaning. “No. I want to keep going. I was startled. That’s all.”

Beatrix hums softly, pressing the metal plug against his rim. Another generous squirt of lube and she pushes it through, the cold almost soothing against the burning stretch as he shivers and clenches around this new toy. It’s heavy inside him, solid and _cold_ , probably kept at room temperature but still colder than he was expecting. He wriggles forward, belly scraping the mattress, but it’s _inside_ him, implacable and impossible to escape. He shivers through his teeth.

“It’ll warm up as you do,” Beatrix says blithely. “You signed up for this, you know. Green?” she asks, abruptly gentle.

It takes Danse a moment to remember the words. “Yes. Green, ma’am.”

“I’m going to start beating you, then. Relax,” she murmurs, leaning close enough her breath caresses the back of his neck. “This won’t hurt. To start.”

The anticipation is torture in itself, struggling not to tense as he hears the clatter of wood and whisper of leather. He prays she won’t start with the studded ones, the ones with rivets. Wonders if she’ll lay marks on him. Wonders if he’ll bruise or bleed, or if she’ll stop if he does. He twists his hands, feeling the ropes dig into his skin, the knots holding firm. If he had felt detached before, _telling_ his desires, he is anchored now—impossible to escape this moment, to fly away from the reality of his body.

There is a tickle, a kiss of tassels over his neck. It trails down his spine, rustles up again over the ladder of his ribs. It is a soft, many-tailed thing, more sensation than pain.

“Do you like this?” she asks, leaning on him. She is warm leather, rich and tannic. His mouth waters with her presence.

Danse shivers, melts. Beatrix strokes a hand up his back, her palm digging into the muscle, her fingers kneading him into putty. But she wants him to talk, so he does. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And do you like this?” she asks, and suddenly she’s not touching him, there’s only the whirr of something cutting the air, and he struggles to think of the name—flogger, flogger, that’s it—and he flinches as it dances over his skin, never quite making contact, but close enough to feel the movement of its passage. He tries leaning forward, silently begging that she’ll go for his ass, somewhere soft, somewhere padded, but there is a stinging bloom as it slaps his shoulders. Left, right, left. Caressing inward, a figure eight of leather and warmth. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, but it awakens something in his skin, blood rushing to the surface.

“Yes, ma’am,” he manages, his mouth suddenly too wet for words, a clumsy slush of desire. It’s still not what Danse wants, that feeling of controlled helplessness, the way that Maxson would anticipate and give Danse what he wanted, before Danse even knew to ask for it, but it—it’s _nice_ , he can’t think of any other words for it. It’s _nice_ to be her undivided focus, the center of such intention.

She gives a few last flicks, soft and gentle, then moves down to his ass. This, _this_ is what he had hoped for, from the beginning. Beatrix is gentle, achingly so, giving a ticklish sting and slap of leather across his buttocks, working across the fleshy meat of his ass. It stings—a little, not a lot—and builds on itself in layers, a gentle heat that trickles down his thighs and between his legs. The metal plug, once unforgiving in its coldness, seems warmer now. Thawed, perhaps, by the warmth building inside him. It is rhythmic, soothing in its predictability. He sinks into the pattern like a warm bath, eyes shut beneath the blindfold. It’s not enough yet, not enough to make him feel as small and hurt as he’d like, but he hopes she’ll go harder, that she’ll understand—

Which means only the dull monotony of being struck, of it never going anywhere close enough to challenge him, never giving him the sort of bone-deep impact that he craves.

Danse groans—just the act of asking, having to ask, is enough to stir him from the comfort of the rhythm. “Harder. Please, ma’am.”

“If I go harder, I might mark you,” Beatrix says, a dry-kiss rasp in her voice.

“Maybe I don’t mind being marked,” Danse confesses, even though he still remembers the broken skin, the hard lines of impact and the numbness in his fingers after the last time with Maxson. He’d minded those marks, then, but Maxson hadn’t _meant_ to hurt…

“Or maybe there’s different kinds of marks, kid? Tell me what you don’t like.”

Danse swallows. “I don’t like canes. Or welts. And things that break, or bleed. I don’t like things that tie too tight. And—please,” he whispers, “can I ask—not to be asked?” Because if she does things to him and he likes it, that’s not his fault. If she does things to him and he doesn’t like it, that’s not his fault either. But if he asks….

“Are you sure? It’s our first time playing, kid.”

“I don’t want to _think_.” He swallows, confession dripping from his lips. “I don’t—I don’t like having to decide. Having to choose. I just want it to hurt.”

Beatrix runs a dry palm down the curve of his ass, cool skin soothing over the mild sting of her flogger. “We can try, but remember your signals.”

“Red to stop, yellow to slow. Affirmative.”

“Ah—most important. If you want me to go harder? Or if you like what I’m doing?”

Danse shivers, trying not to press into her hand. “Green, ma’am.”

“Good, good.” She then shifts her weight, grabbing something else. She presses it against him, cool leather against his flushed skin. Taps it against his ass, the weight knocking against the base of the metal plug. Danse flinches in anticipation, breathing ragged through his mouth. If the flogger were a kiss, this is a kiss with a fist.

“Tell me. What color?”

“Green. _Green_ , ma’am!” he repeats, voice raised because he wants it, he fears it, and what if he didn’t say it loud enough the first time…? He tries to relax, to submerge back into the warm-bath mentality, but he hears the strap rushing towards him and braces—

_Whack!_

He howls into the pillow, knees clenched ass clenched everything all together, all blood all feeling all pain now on his ass, his left cheek, a solid stripe of pain and—

“Color?”

“ _Green!”_ he bellows, and he _feels_ rather than hears her wind up again, a subtle tension in the air and the shift of her gravity and the weight of her shadow—

_Whack!_

It rocks him forward, mouth falling open on the pillow, cloth damp beneath his tongue, a dry scrape over his teeth and it swallows his scream as he cries, whimpers. It _hurt_ , it hurt, and he’s been hurt worse before but he is _naked_ and _bound_ and _blindfolded_ and she’s just _laughing_ —

“You’re red as a sunset,” she croons, mockingly soft. “I’ll keep going if you want, but you gotta tell me. I save my best for when you beg.”

Fire, fire. His mind is on fire, his tongue is a river, his feet are stone and all his words are just ash on the wind—

“Green, ma’am,” he grunts through clenched teeth, struggling to remember the formalities of words, the effort of demand. He could just sit and _take_ it, he would bend and break to her will, but the worst is when she makes him beg for it, when she forces him to admit that he _wants_ it.

“Once more, with feeling.” He imagines her grin, lips stretched taut and teeth like bullets. The silver-shine echo winking from her belt.

Danse takes a shaky breath and commands his lungs. “Green, ma’am!”

Beatrix cackles, and _then_ the blows rain down. Hard thuds, solid on the muscle, fading to a burning sting. She lays them down in overlapping strata, fresh pain over old. The new hits—the ones on untouched skin—hold more immediate burn, the shock of initiation, but the ones that overlap contain more depth. The pain builds, rolling on itself. Heat, fire. Develops in layers, working itself deep, deeper beneath the skin. Melting into bone. The world fades around him, he remembers it only in pockets of detail. The way his knees ache as he rocks forward, back. The way his stubble scrapes the pillow. The tears welling beneath the blindfold, sodden on his lashes. All conscious thought is saved for his ass, the weight and heat of it as he groans, whimpers. Mute, wordless. An empty vessel, waiting to be filled.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, and it takes several moments—soft, languid, floating like bubbles in oil—for him to realize _oh_ , she’s talking to him.

“Good. Hurt.”

“I’m going to get the flogger, all right? Last time was gentle. This time won’t be.”

He mumbles assent, but would really rather just be let loose to drift. Back in his body, back in the nameless void—

She pats his buttocks, and even that small touch makes him whimper, after the weight and heft of her leather paddle.

That kissing, hissing sound of the tails whipping the air—and then it’s on him again, and he howls, screams. She had been so _gentle_ , he hadn’t been prepared for her sting. This time is harder, the many lashes on his skin, multiple lines and lacerations of agony. Every time he thinks he’s ready for it, he’s not. He alternates howls and hiccups, just managing to squeak _green, green_ whenever Beatrix asks. She works past the swell of his ass, across the sensitive skin at the top of his thighs. He flinches as she drags the tails across his ass, even when she’s not whipping him, the soft leather tickling over his balls. Oh. Oh no. Oh _no_. No, he can’t—

“Oh, _that’s_ a reaction,” she murmurs, lifting the flogger. “Buck up, soldier boy. I don’t flog testicles.”

Danse groans with relief.

“Feeling small, yet?” she asks. He hears the creak of leather, and then her boot’s on him, heel at an angle, digging into his back. Her spur jangles, a metal rasp of threat and promise.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers.

Beatrix chuckles, almost loving as she leans forward, pressing the weight of her body through the sole of her boot. “I could break you down in pieces. Peel you inside-out. And you’d pay for it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gulps, feeling her settle back on the heel. The edge of the spur pricks his skin, and he holds himself still. Still as silence, still as stone. Afraid to upset that precarious balance, because if he moves, if he upsets her in any way, that spur will tear right through him.

She laughs, as if reading his thoughts. Beatrix gently drags her boot along his skin, the metal spokes in slow rotation down the small of his back. Then she eases back, both feet planted on the floor once more.

“You’ve been a good boy,” she says, patting his ass. Light, with just her fingertips. “Still want my fist up your ass?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He hears the snap of latex again, the wet squirt of lube from a bottle, and it’s reassuring in its familiarity. He still flinches, groans as she grabs his sore ass, bracing to pull out the plug—he had almost forgotten he was wearing it, until it’s out. He’s empty, excavated. Hungry to be filled again. So he spreads his knees wide and leans on his hands, cock rubbing the blankets as he tries to keep himself open for her, tries not to whimper as he feels those first few fingers sliding back into him—

“Oh, that’s a _good_ sound,” Beatrix murmurs, crooking her hand. She works him slow, sliding her fingers in, palm flat against his taint and crooking, stretching, and he wriggles and moans around the strength of her hand. The lube warms with her touch, and when he’s loose, relaxed, all her fingers pressed against his hole, she asks, “Ready?”

She waits for him to answer, then it’s one long _push_ , her knuckles flaring and then she’s inside him, all of her hand swallowed up by him, her square palm and muscled forearm and oh damn but maybe _bigger_ isn’t the right word, but it’s a different _kind_ of big than with Keene. She clenches her fist, rocking into him with the weight of her shoulders, her other hand on his back with the nails digging into his skin, fucking him with the steady drive of her hand.

Danse comes, almost an afterthought across the sheets.

He’d have considered it embarrassingly quick if he had been inside someone, but when Beatrix asks, “Want me to stop?” he realizes that he doesn’t _want_ her to stop. So he mumbles, something like _no, no, please, keep going_ and it’s a different kind of nice to feel her fucking him, to feel himself quiver around her even after orgasm. Comforting, even. Massage-like in its warm rhythm.

He can’t remember exactly when she stops—she might have asked him, but all his thoughts are fuzzy, little balls of lint trapped inside his skull—but she does, eventually. Removes her glove, washes up. Undoes his blindfold, offers him a glass of water. He refuses, but she makes him take a sip anyway. Coaxes him to lie on the bed, hips slung across her lap with a towel between them. Another damp towel on his ass, cool and soothing. She rubs small circles on his back, soft patterns with the tips of her fingers. Long strokes with the palm of her hand.

It takes a while, but he remembers himself. Slowly. He is Danse. He is a synth. He is a former member of the Brotherhood of Steel. He is—

“How did you know I was a soldier?” he asks, voice strange even to him.

She continues stroking his back, gently scratching across the shoulder blades. “There was a real big war here. You get to know the type.”

"What's the type?"

Beatrix chuckles. “Someone whose relaxed stance screams ‘at ease.’”

Danse groans, relaxing across the bed. The cool cloth’s doing its job, the pain in his ass down to a dull ache. “You’re being very kind. Thank you.”

“It’s included, kiddo. Just like paying Fisto includes condoms.”

And that should sting, maybe, that paying a dominatrix includes more tenderness than Maxson had ever shown him. That a ghoul is showing more kindness to Danse than the Brotherhood had ever shown to them.

But it’s hard to muster anger for it.

Maxson—and the Brotherhood—was years ago, now. They’re just bruises, slowly fading.


	3. In Which Danse Gets Rejected

“I’m dying! The end is nigh! Goodbye, cruel world, I will never—”

A racking cough interrupts Deacon’s monologue.

“Ironic, considering this week’s delivery is medical supplies,” Danse mutters, ladling out a bowl of soup. Small dumplings bounce gently in golden broth, rich with carrots and onion. There’s little chicken in it; it’s expensive out here. Danse would have substituted with gecko, never mind that it’s not kosher, because it’s close enough for imperfect memory—except for the fact that Deacon hates the fishy aftertaste. But it’s still a careful approximation of the childhood chicken soup that Danse remembers.

Or that _someone_ remembers.

Danse has made peace with the fact that none of his childhood memories are his own, instead a patchwork of others’ memories. He suspects that Deacon would be able to tell him at least one of the original donors; Deacon had once given him a Purim basket with apricot-ginger preserves that tasted _exactly_ like childhood. It might have been made by the original family of whoever’s memory it truly was.

But this is _Danse’s_ memory now. He might not be following the original chicken soup recipe, but it’s close enough.

“Julie’s gonna be pissed,” Deacon says dolefully.

“She won’t be. If I deliver the package, we’ll still get paid.” Checking the calendar, Danse promises, “I’ll be back before ‘quintessence.’ Now sit up.” Danse has to guide Deacon upright, fluffing up the lumpy pillow for them.

Deacon even _smells_ sick, stale and sour, while their eyes are fever-bright. Their ridiculous sunglasses are folded on the nightstand, next to a battered cowgirl romance and a dog-eared illustrated guide to the plants and wildflowers of the Mojave.

Danse feeds Deacon in slow spoonfuls, talking gently. “I can do the delivery on my own. I’ll be fine. I can ask Mick and Ralph to check on you, and I’ll make sure you have plenty of soup and tea.”

“You just wanna go to Jacobstown on your own,” Deacon mumbles around a slurp. “Gonna go sit on a dick.”

Danse rolls his eyes, but neither confirms or denies.

He makes sure to leave a bottle of acetaminophen tablets on the nightstand, and stops by Mick and Ralph’s to pass on the message. Danse offers caps in exchange for checking on Deacon, but they wave it aside. Danse repeats the offer, this time in exchange for using Mick and Ralph’s stock as a lending library. They agree, and Danse stops by the Fort to pick up the delivery from Julie Farkas. It’s not _urgent_ , but it’s still important; bigger shipments can travel with the caravans, but it’s easier to deliver smaller things by courier.

And despite Deacon’s accusations, it has _nothing_ to do with Danse wanting to see Keene again.

Danse repeats this to himself all the way up the mountain, adjusting the straps of his pack so they won’t dig into his shoulders— _I am not going to see Keene, I am not going to see Keene—_ and leaning into the climb, huffing with the effort of trekking up through the thin mountain air. _I am not going to see Keene_.

_I am not INTENTIONALLY going to see Keene_.

This resolution lasts as he makes his way through the front gates and says hello to Marcus, carries Deacon’s regrets and stops by the clinic. The ghoul doctor—named Calamity, which seems an ominous name for a physician but no stranger than half the stage names in Vegas—accepts the package, and then Danse goes to the back of the lodge to catch his breath and admire the scene. There’s a distant chopping noise, growing ever-closer as Danse circles around. He then sees Keene, shirtless and gleaming in the dappled light beneath the trees, his red scarf carefully folded over a nearby branch.

It takes Danse a moment to adjust to the scale of him. A human-sized axe would look impossibly tiny, toy-like, in Keene’s hands. This one seems perfectly suited to Keene’s size though, the nightkin grunting as he splits another log.

Keene seems lost in his own rhythm, panting as he places fresh logs on the stump. He holds his axe in a wide grip, one hand at the base of the handle and the other at the neck, raising it overhead with a straight back, almost on his toes before bringing it down with a sharp _crack!_ as he sinks into bent knees. His chest and shoulders ripple with each blow of the axe, sweat gleaming down the curve of his spine.

And...he’s _magnificent_.

Danse watches for several of these splits, heart in his throat.

Finally, Keene grunts, “It’s rude to stare, human.”

Danse flushes, averting his gaze.

“Stack the wood. I’ll finish this lot.”

Danse gathers the chopped wood in his arms, shuffling to the nearby woodpile. When Keene finishes, he wipes his face and chest with his shirt, then helps Danse finish stacking. Fresh sweat and pine needles make their own sort of cologne, leaving Danse’s mouth wet.

Remembering last time—Keene likes being _asked_ —Danse says, “Would you like to have sex? Please?”

Keene chuckles, placing the last logs in place. “Nope.” He gives them a pat, still gleaming with sweat.

Danse’s face burns. “Wait—wait, what?”

Keene smirks, pulling his shirt back on. “I said no, human. You’re pretty, sure. And stretchy,” he adds, dilating his thumb and forefinger in an obscene circle, “but that’s it. I don’t have the energy to play big scary mutant every goddamn time.”

“I—I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t—how did I fail you, sir? How did I—?”

Keene goes still. Not inert, but like a spring compressed. A dangerous kinetic energy, restrained. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Not unless we’re fucking. You don’t have the goddamn _right_.”

Danse feels his face cracking, the sweat itching down the back of his neck. Struggling to maintain composure, struggling not to weep at his own infuriating stupidity. Deacon would know what to do. Deacon would know what to say. Deacon would have known what _not_ to do, how not to even end up in this situation in the first place…

“Please. I—I don’t understand. I’m sorry. And I don’t know what I did _wrong_.”

Keene ties his scarf in place, staring somewhere over Danse’s head. Danse doesn’t know where to look, so settles uneasily on watching a pebble between his feet. It’s an irregular gray stone, spectacularly uninteresting.

“You think I just fuck on demand? That I’m going to just drop my pants and rail you against a tree?” Keene snorts, contempt rolling from him in palpable waves.

“ _No_ ,” Danse blurts, but it’s like scrabbling on loose shale. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t intend—”

“You walked up, didn’t even bother saying ‘hello,’ and asked if I wanted to fuck you. Again.” Keene makes a disgusted noise. “You’re not the first human I’ve fucked, but it’s like you’re trying to be the last.”

“I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t mean—I just thought that last time was good. It was good, wasn’t it? And we could do it again? Pl—”

“If you say ‘please’ I’m knocking your teeth out,” Keene says flatly.

Danse gulps.

Finally, in a small voice, Danse says, “I think I hurt you, but I don’t know how.”

Keene cracks with laughter, like water from a broken dam. It spills from him, rich and full and _beautiful,_ dragging up Danse’s spine like a long knuckle. Its resonance causes Danse’s heart to thrum in harmony despite himself.

“Fuck. For fuck’s sake,” Keene chuckles, finally at ease. The hard line of his shoulders relaxes as he hooks his thumb into his belt loops. “For fuck’s sake. Takes a lot worse than you to hurt my feelings. You’re just an asshole, is all.”

“I didn’t mean to be,” Danse whispers.

“Yeah, and I don’t mean to knock my skull walking through doorways.” Keene shrugs. “If it makes you feel any better, you were fun. But it was just fucking. Curiosity sated.”

“But—”

“I said no.” Keene grins with far too many teeth. “You appreciate the irony? If it was reversed? Big scary nightkin harassing the tiny little human?” he adds, vinegar-sweet and mocking.

Danse turns stiffly, Keene’s laughter haunting him through the trees.

. . .

Jacobstown is a welcoming place, despite Keene.

Danse folds himself into kitchen duty with Lily once more. She calls him ‘Jimmy’ while instructing him to chop onions, and gives him a cookie and a glass of brahmin milk when he’s done. He nibbles it, vaguely aware that he’s spoiling his appetite for dinner but unable to care. Rex wags his tail, begging hopefully, and Danse pets him in consolation for not giving him any cookie.

“Jimmy, you seem sad. Talk to grandma,” Lily says, her voice a gentle pepper-grinder.

Danse sighs. “I’m not—” He halts himself. It seems cruel to correct a woman who won’t remember anyways. “I’m not sad. But I upset Keene.”

“Well, dearie, sometimes it’s best just to leave Keene alone. He doesn’t always like little Jimmies.”

Danse blinks. This is the first use he can recall of ‘Jimmies’ plural, rather than singular.

“It’s all the staring and the prying,” she says vaguely. “Stealth Boys make it go away for a while, but it’s always hard when they’re staring. But don’t worry, grandma loves her Jimmy.” She beams, gums receding from her gap-toothed smile.

“How many Jimmies come to Jacobstown?” Danse asks, cautious.

“Well, there were the cheesemakers on Tuesday, and the apothecary made her rounds Sunday…” Lily’s voice trails off, lost to memory or her own distraction, a tuneless hum as she pours chopped onions into a simmering bean soup.

“Why doesn’t he leave, if he doesn’t like the Jimmies?”

“Leave?” Lily drops her ladle, rattling against the pot. “Why would he leave? This is our home.”

Danse winces, slapped with his own stupidity.

“He brought us here, you know,” she says, picking up the ladle again. She stirs slowly, hands trembling. Danse bites his nails into his palms, resisting the urge to take over the task. “He led us here, after—after the Master’s army.” Her voice quavers, then strengthens as she nods decisively. “Yes, that was it. Marcus is a sweet boy, but he doesn’t understand us nightkin. Not like Keene does, poor dear. If it weren’t for Keene, I don’t know how many of us would have made it. Tabitha had already left, naughty girl, and so many others were ready to follow."

“Then why—why isn’t Keene the mayor? Instead of Marcus?”

“Why would Keene want to be mayor?” Lily asks, brows creased in confusion.

“To be in charge!” Danse sputters. “I mean. Isn’t that what mayors _do_?” He can imagine Hancock laughing at him as soon as the words come out. The little ghoul clutching his belly and rolling on the floor, kicking his feet like a radroach.

Lily sprinkles chilis into the soup, humming. “That doesn’t sound like a very good mayor to me.”

Danse opens his mouth, then clacks it shut.

They finish the rest of the dinner prep in silence, other than Lily’s humming and occasional instructions to stir and chop. Another nightkin enters, and Lily greets him with a “Hello, Lee!” and a warm hug, but the nightkin doesn’t bother introducing himself to Danse. Instead, he just waves, then starts whistling cheerfully as they set the tables. Lee waggles his eyebrows at Danse, gesturing to the bell. Danse shakes his head, unsure if Lee is offering to let him ring it. With a shrug, Lee rings the dinner bell and hoists the flag.

Dinner is lonely, even amidst the warm cacophony of so many people. Mutants and nightkin sit intermingled, and Lee’s gone to one of the round tables where he’s busy signing at the others—oh, maybe _that’s_ why he didn’t say anything to Danse—and even Calamity is deep in conversation with another mutant, and whatever she’s saying is so interesting that the mutant’s nodding, a forkful of potatoes forgotten in their hand.

Danse wishes Deacon were here.

“I’m used to green and purple, but you look blue,” Marcus chuckles. He kicks out the chair next to him, patting the seat.

Danse slides in gratefully. “Thank you, sir.” He coughs, remembering Keene’s revulsion. “I mean, mayor. I mean—”

“Marcus is just fine.” Marcus leans back, grinning. His face is broader and lumpier than most of the others, with pockmarks that look as if bullets have been pried out of his skin. “We’re not much on formality here.”

“Thank you, sir—Marcus.”

Marcus smiles, passing a tin of cornbread, and Danse helps himself to the plate.

During dinner, Danse finds himself brave enough to ask about the butterfly flag, and Marcus explains it’s translated from ‘mariposa,’ after an old military base. Which sounds like an entire history of its _own_ , and theoretically the sort of information that Danse should be gathering as part of this cross-country expedition, but it’s easier to slot his silences under Marcus’ easy laughter, to smile and nod in all the right places until dinner’s over.

Before Danse can join the dishwashing brigade, someone taps his shoulder. He turns, and it’s Lee, rattling a box of checkers. Lee quirks an eyebrow in invitation—he has sharp, expressive eyes, deep-set and glittering—and Marcus makes a gentle shooing motion, so Danse allows himself to be pulled into a game.

Lee handily beats him, then invites a rematch. Lee wins _again_ , but holds up his fingers, offering best out of five and a teasing smile. Danse flushes; he doesn’t consider himself a sore loser, but he hates being humored _._

A green-skinned mutant eases himself at the table. He has heavy scars over one eye and white stubble across his skull. Lee immediately gives him a flurry of hand signals, some of which look astonishingly _vulgar_ , and the newcomer laughs. Despite his fearsome appearance, his voice has a warm resonance, less raspy than Keene’s.

Danse wonders when he’ll stop comparing every other mutant to Keene.

“Lee is offering filthy sexual favors if you win. Just in case you need incentive,” the mutant says with a smile.

Danse blushes all the way to his toes, and Lee throws his head back with laughter. Lee then meets his eyes, grinning.

Unsure whether the offer is jest or genuine, Danse elects to ignore it.

“Ah—yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Lee. And…?” Danse looks askance at the translator.

“Neil. And you are?”

“Danse. Pleasure to meet you both.”

Danse finally wins the third game. He suspects Lee’s taking pity on him, but then Keene comes to the small table and his mouth goes dry. If Keene wants him—if Keene still wants him, if Keene’s forgiven him, then Danse would fall to his knees, right now—

Keene brushes a kiss on Lee’s forehead, and Lee turns, placing both hands on Keene’s shoulders and drawing him into a much longer kiss. Deeper. _Humming_. Keene’s jaw relaxes, and there’s a slick of visible tongue, and Danse suddenly finds himself staring at the painted red and black checkers on the board because he might combust otherwise.

In his peripheral vision, he can see Keene start signing, fast and jerky. He smacks his palms together, two fingers out from each hand, and makes no attempt to translate. Neil opens his mouth, but Keene silences him with a look. Lee grins, pushing out his seat, and wraps his arm around Keene’s waist. His non-signing hand slides into Keene’s back pocket, giving a squeeze that makes Danse’s own ass throb in empathy. Envy. Something between the two.

Lee cocks an eyebrow, gesturing towards Danse. Then Keene. Then smiling, tongue between his teeth and holding up three fingers—

“No.” Keene actually bothers saying this one out loud. As if it’s necessary, between the shake of his head and the way his fingers snap closed. Strong denial.

Lee shrugs, as best he can with his arm around Keene. But then Keene juts his chin towards Neil and _Neil_ rises and Danse is almost but not quite sure what’s going on, and then that uncertainty collapses on itself because Neil pats Danse on the back with an apologetic smile. “Not this time. But if you ever want to play, well…”

“Last one up’s sleeping on the wet spot,” Keene growls.

Neil laughs. “As if you’d stick around to cuddle anyways.”

Lee crosses his eyes, sticking out his tongue at Keene and signing something that’s probably rude, from the way that Keene rolls his eyes. Neil slaps Keene on the shoulder, leans across to kiss Lee’s nose, and the three go upstairs, leaving Danse sitting in a stew of want and confusion.

“I’m not offering filthy sexual favors, but I’ll play checkers if you need a partner,” Marcus says drily, taking the empty seat.

Danse’s flush scalds him all the way to the bone. “Is that—is that usual? Around here?”

“Checkers? Filthy sexual favors?”

“Filthy—” Danse chokes, sputtering. Marcus gives him a friendly thump on the back that nearly bowls him over. “That was—erm. The most open display of sexual proclivity I have seen,” he finishes stiffly.

Marcus raises a non-existent eyebrow. “We’ve all known each other for years. Decades. Hell, coming on over a century in some cases. Why _shouldn’t_ we be open?”

And Danse can’t think of a single reason, other than the groin-tingling possibility of _hope_ and disappointment when it comes to thinking of all three mutants in the same bed, laughing and touching and—and—

Maybe a threeway between old friends is just another Friday night in Jacobstown, but Danse is distracted by his own hard-on and loses the next three games. He claims exhaustion, shaking off Marcus’ offer to walk him back—and oh _fuck_ , Marcus is kind and gentle, more gentle than Danse deserves even if it wouldn’t cross some possible code of conduct against sleeping with Deacon’s partners—and stumbles to the visitor’s cabin.

He’s unbuckling his belt even before the door slams shut, and collapses into the bed with his trousers down around his hips. It’s a bad angle, because Danse doesn’t want to track his dirty boots across the quilted blankets, so he grimaces and undoes his laces, kicking the boots onto the floor before settling down to take matters into hand.

Danse closes his eyes, thinking of Keene’s vulgar laugh, the way he kissed Lee. Thinking of Lee’s expressive face and gestures, his long fingers and narrow wrists. Neil’s gentleness, the warmth of his voice…

Danse’s climax is obscene rather than satisfying, and he washes his hands afterwards. Then he strips down, taking advantage of the Jacobstown plumbing to take a shower. He stands under the showerhead, teeth chattering as the water warms up, but at least it washes away the last vestiges of shame.

. . .

Danse eats breakfast with Lee and Neil the next morning, trying not to stare at the bruise-colored hickeys high on Neil’s neck while Lee piles more pancakes on Danse’s plate. He stiffens when he sees Keene, and Keene’s mouth turns into a scowl, but then Lee waves him down and Keene takes a seat. Keene doesn’t bother speaking to Danse, only using terse sign language with Lee as Neil helps Danse finish his pancakes.

When Keene finishes, he takes his friends’ plates, and Danse hurries after him. Keene joins the dishwashing brigade, elbows deep in suds and clattering dishes, and Danse struggles to find a spot next to him.

The noisy kitchen doesn’t lend itself to intimate conversation, but Danse tries anyway.

“Keene, I’m sorry.”

Keene grunts.

“About last night. And last time. And—”

Keene holds up one hand, clearly miming a zipper across his lips.

Danse swallows. “Please. I’ll leave you alone, if I can just finish apologizing—”

“After the chores,” Keene grunts, giving half a shrug that might just be him lifting an enormous pan for scrubbing. Danse chooses to believe that it was an agreement, and doesn’t leave the kitchen with Keene until the last dish is washed and dried.

Danse’s new shirt is damp with spattered suds, making his teeth chatter as he chases after Keene. He has to half-skip, half-run to keep up with Keene’s strides, but Keene doesn't bother slowing down as he circles behind the lodge. Back to chopping wood, it seems.

“If you help, you can talk.” Keene folds his scarf over a tree branch, and his shirt follows.

Danse is careful not to stare this time, trying to watch Keene’s hands rather than the impressive body on display.

“I—I wanted to apologize.” He swallows, trying to think of how Deacon would do it. “I was—rude, you’re right. I find you very attractive, but that doesn’t excuse my gawking. I didn’t think—I wasn’t thinking, and I’m sorry.”

Keene grunts, splitting a log. Danse already has another in hand, passing it to Keene. Keene nods, and Danse flushes.

“And I—I realize—” Danse curls his fingers into his palm, nails biting the skin. “I realize that I wasn’t _listening_ to you. You were trying to talk to me, as a person, and I wasn’t responding when you—when you weren’t acting out the fantasy I thought I had.” The fantasy Keene of that night, with his rough hands and dirty laugh, the way he treated Danse with contempt before pinning him to the mattress. The fantasy Keene of that night wouldn’t have kissed Lee in the dining hall, wouldn’t have been friends with Neil and Lee. Wouldn’t have existed outside of the bedroom.

Keene splits the wood, then wipes his forearm across the sweat gathering on his face. Danse passes him another log.

“And it’s not just—” Danse flushes, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s not just because—because you’re big. I like men who are—assertive. Powerful. Who command respect, and make me feel—” He stumbles over the word. No, he shouldn’t say ‘small.’ “—like I’m nothing.”

“I’d say I don’t give a shit, but that’d turn you on, wouldn’t it?”

Danse chokes, a guilty throb inside his belly at Keene’s words, at Keene’s dark chuckle as he turns to face Danse.

“You’ve got baggage,” the man says frankly. “I’m not judging. But for the record, that was just fucking. Like I said, I don’t mind playing mean nasty mutant once in a while. Just not all the time.”

“I’m not asking—” Danse swallows his own words, recognizing they’re a lie. “I mean. I’d like to do it again, yes, but that’s not—that’s not the point. I came to apologize, and I’m sorry. I won’t—I won’t proposition you again.”

Keene nods, and that’s the end of their talk for the rest of the woodpile. Bird-trill is the only other conversation as Danse stacks the split logs and brings fresh wood.

Keene finishes, pulls his shirt on, then abruptly says, “For the record, you can _ask_. Next time.” He flashes a grin, sharp and wicked. “But I still might say no.”

Which is close enough to hope that it warms Danse all the way down the mountain.


	4. In Which Danse Gets Bred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note** : This chapter contains a sex scene where Red Lucy calls Danse a bitch. It is wholly in the context of breeding kink, but caution if that’s not your cuppa.

By the time Danse reaches Freeside, he realizes that Keene’s words could have just as well been a way of shooing Danse from Jacobstown. And trying to send letters or go back begging Keene for one last reassurance would go against the spirit of any ‘just fucking’ agreement that they _might_ have reached, so Danse slumps his shoulders and drags his boots all the way back to the Fort as he reviews every nuance of the morning’s conversation.

This is why he prefers rules and regulations. Clear demarcations between the permitted and the forbidden, with equally clear standards for rewards and punishment. Defined and regimented as words in a dictionary.

He used to wonder if it was a flaw in him, that he never understood the social cues that everyone else grasped without thinking. He’s been told that he takes things too seriously, when he fails to distinguish humor from sincerity, to interpret the fractional lift of an eyebrow into disgust versus interest. He always assumed it was something unique to him—a failure to communicate, to understand—and thought he had the answer after discovering he was a synth. A glitch in his code, a failure of machine-brain to approximate a genuine human sense of self.

Except—Deacon had pulled Danse into weekly poker games with Cait and Piper. Preston took a seat when he had the time, as did Jun and MacCready. Danse had learned that even these unquestionably human _humans_ had trouble reading one another’s expressions, and that it ultimately mattered less than their ongoing friendships.

If Danse is flawed, he is flawed because he is built on a human foundation. Even his neuroses and idiosyncrasies are a gift of sorts, memories shared by the humans who made him. Just as real as Harkness’ knife.

He picks up the payment from Julie, then treks back to where he’s staying with Deacon. Deacon’s fast asleep, drooling gently on the pillow as Danse cracks the door open. A floriography book is open to a full-color spread of various orchids. Danse holds his breath, hoping Deacon will keep sleeping, but the door creaks and Deacon stirs, sitting up to blink blearily at him.

“Em?”

Danse opens his mouth, ready to correct him, but Deacon’s face breaks into a smile gentler than he’s ever seen. With Deacon’s sunglasses off, it’s easy to see the crow’s feet around his eyes, the fine wrinkles creasing his forehead. Danse automatically presses it in the pages of memory like the rare flower that it is.

“M7-97? It’s okay, it’s fine. If you wanna chat, it’s—” Deacon yawns. “—it’s fine. We're friends, alright?"

Danse’s heart flips.

_Oh_.

Deacon had been his friend long before Danse was ever his.

Before Danse can think of a suitable response—what would he even say? What words could express his gratitude?—Deacon’s slumped back again, drooling.

. . .

It takes another two days (‘gratuitous’ and ‘prognosticate’) before Deacon’s fully over his flu, but Danse stops by Mick and Ralph’s to make an order, then buys a half-dozen bottles of nail polish. Nail polish is common as Nuka around here; every merchant, whether a two-cap street vendor or an anchored shop like Mick and Ralph’s, seems to have it on sale. Most of it’s made from paint chips and alcohol and flecks of whatever glitter they can get hold of. He even heard that the Thorn’s proprietor puts radscorpion venom in hers, though no one can actually verify that claim.

When Deacon’s feeling well enough to read, he reads. When he just wants to sit up and talk, Danse sits with him. And when Deacon wants his nails painted, well…

Danse bites the tip of his tongue as he paints Deacon’s nails. Deacon’s hand is warm in his, the fingers loose. The nail polish he’s chosen—a pale blue, with tiny bits of sparkle—doesn’t match the gray bottle.

Despite all their travel, the nights spent bundled back-to-back and sharing shoebox-sized rooms in abandoned houses, Deacon doesn’t invite physical intimacy. He’ll slap Danse on the back or pinch his arm, but it’s not a sustained source of contact. Deacon’s jumpy as a cat anyways, but Danse can’t help blaming himself for it.

And he can pinpoint why, because it really _was_ all his fault.

He’d propositioned Deacon. It was just after they saw the world’s largest ball of twine, which had been just as underwhelming as Danse predicted. The Kansas Amazons had been kind enough that Danse didn’t want to offend, so he had made polite noises anyway. Something about being surrounded by their smiling faces, all of them wearing the piecemeal miners’ uniforms with lights and helmets, made him both roadsick and lonely enough to try kissing Deacon outside their room that night. Deacon had politely but firmly refused, telling him not to mistake lonely for horny and finishing with a disgustingly cheerful encouragement to jack off once in a while.

Danse _was_ lonely. Danse _was_ horny. But mostly…

He doesn’t want to lose Deacon. Deacon’s his only friend out here, but Deacon makes friends at the drop of a hat.

“Ah, thanks. Looks great,” Deacon says, examining his nails. He fans his hands under his chin, grinning. “I always fuck up when I try to paint my right hand.”

“I would have thought it would be a little conspicuous, for a spy.”

“Not really. Just another kind of dress-up. Coats, dresses, wigs, stockings...different kinds of uniforms.”

Danse shifts awkwardly, crossing his ankles beneath his chair. “I can’t imagine you in a dress.”

“Why not? I like dresses.”

Danse chews his cheek, certain he’s going to shove his foot in his mouth. “You never struck me as especially...feminine.”

“There are lots of ways to be a man. Lots of ways to be a woman. And lots of ways to be neither.” Deacon chuckles, leaning forward as if to tweak Danse’s nose before remembering his polish. “Plus plenty of overlap.”

“How do you know what you really are, if it keeps changing?”

“Because no matter what, I’m still _me_.” Deacon grins, bright as the immortal lightbulb. “Yeah, I’ve questioned. And sometimes I keep questioning. I’m allowed to change.” He raps his knuckles on the tip of Danse’s nose. “And so are you.”

Danse’s nose twitches, and he swats at Deacon. “I got you—I got you a present. For when you change,” he says haltingly. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a square tin wrapped in a faded yellow bow. He’d read the book on floriography, and while red or pink might represent unwarranted sexual or romantic interest, Danse hopes that the yellow won’t misrepresent his intentions.

Deacon claps his hands gleefully and undoes the ribbon in a single yank. He pulls the box open, spilling the contents onto his lap. Danse holds his breath as Deacon exclaims, “New pronoun pins? Oh, they’ve got _magnets_! Nice!”

Danse releases his breath, cheeks aching with an unfamiliar smile. “So you won’t have to keep putting holes in your shirts.”

“It’s settled, I’m treating you to a night out!”

. . .

The crowd roars, echoing off the walls and surging as the fighters limp out of the arena. Attendants drag out the body of a young deathclaw, then sweep the blood-soaked sand. Danse’s stomach flips, his pulse in his ears and his heart still in his throat after the fight. Deacon leans over the railing, the metal bar digging into their stomach as they shamelessly whistle and cheer at the gladiators. Most of the fighters ignore them, but one woman with orange spikes and a beartrap gauntlet holds up two fingers and sticks her tongue between them. Danse grabs the back of Deacon’s shirt to keep them from falling into the pit.

Heedless of the danger—or possibly excited by it—Deacon says, “I think I’m making friends! Catch you later!” With that, they twist free and squirm away through the crowd.

This appears to be the end of the night, but people are still roiling around, laughter and conversation pulsing like an immense animal heartbeat. Danse tries to follow Deacon, but he’s not nearly as adept at navigation; every few steps he seems to stomp on someone’s foot, or to accidentally jostle someone. Deacon’s soon lost to him, so he struggles his way to the bar. A hard-eyed woman with red hair leans across the bar and crooks her finger at him. The bartender ducks their head to hide a smile, gesturing at Danse that she isn’t to be ignored.

“You are a new face. You bring fresh blood,” she says. Her voice is low, but carries the warmth of command. The years lining her eyes and the silver threading her hair tells him that she’s had time to get used to it.

“Ah. I suppose so, ma’am. It's an impressive place.” He squirms, suddenly uncertain of what to do with his hands. He takes a sip of sarsaparilla, buying time to say something less mundane.

“I am Red Lucy, caretaker of the Thorn.” Danse instinctively checks her nails—blunt, unpainted. The rumors of her radscorpion polish remain unverified. “This is a sacred ground. These beasts are slaves to their instincts, and hunger for blood. Of course, that is not the only hunger.” She smiles, wicked and knife-like, and Danse gulps his drink.

“Ah. Is that—is that so, ma’am?”

“Humility is a fine quality in a man. Do you have a taste for worship?”

Danse’s mouth is suddenly dry, despite the soda slicking his tongue. “If by worship, you mean taking commands, then...yes, ma’am.” Struggling to regain some sense of propriety, he adds, “My name is—”

“Irrelevant, as you are not a hunter.” Red Lucy’s tone is cool, but her eyes sparkle. It makes his knees buckle. “Prove your valor in my arena, or acquire eggs for my breeders, and _then_ I will learn your name. But for tonight?” She reaches for him, squeezing the hard lines of his shoulders, probing the thick muscle of the bicep and stroking down his arm. It’s appraising more than appreciative, as if inspecting livestock. His cock twitches at that casual ownership, and she smiles. Tip of her tongue between her teeth. Biting down laughter, as if it’s just a game. “You’re mine. If you’re up for the play.”

Danse doesn’t know the rules, but _oh_ he’s eager to learn.

He nods, chin thumping his chest before he slams down the unfinished bottle, prompting a gust of laughter before she turns around and beckons him to follow. He hurries after her, following her through the metal corridors and to a more secluded section behind the pits. She strips, not seeming in any particular hurry as she pulls off her boots. Her pants follow, but she leaves her shirt on—a thin white tank top, loose enough to hide her lean breasts, except for the nipples jutting through the fabric. Danse follows suit, trying to imitate her confidence.

“What would you like, ma’am?”

“First, I request that you call me mistress, not ma’am. You will be worshiping me, after all.” She pulls a black leather harness from her dresser, the straps jingling against the wood. “We will start with you on your knees, using your mouth. Is this acceptable?”

Danse flushes. It feels a little silly, but then again, most kinks feel silly once the hard-on fades. “Yes, mistress.”

“And then, I will breed you.”

His pulse jumps. “Ma’am? I mean—mistress?”

“I will take my cock and fuck you like a bitch in heat,” she says, and _oh_ she sounds so casual about it, as if Danse is just a means to an end. It makes him throb, deep in the pit of his belly. “I have a very specific cock I would like to fuck you with.” Her smile hasn’t faded, though the softness in her eyes might be as close to trepidation as she’ll admit. “To be clear, I _do_ have other toys we can enjoy. But this is my favorite.”

Danse lets out his breath, the air chafing his lungs. “This must be a very special cock, ma—erm. Mistress. ”

“It is. Custom-made,” Red Lucy says, reaching back into the drawer to pull out a—

Wow.

This toy was very clearly designed to be something other than human. It starts with a bulging taper, then a thick series of bumps and ridges along a curving shaft, like armored plates or scales, before ending with a bulbous knot. Red Lucy’s hand can’t even reach around the base, which looks _ludicrous_ but it finally hits him.

“That’s a _deathclaw_!”

“In silicone. Made to my specifications.” Red Lucy drops it in her lap, and he realizes that there’s a syringe as well, attached to the dildo via plastic tubing. “Including a reservoir for semen.” At his expression, she gives a wry smile. “Not real semen. Lubricant. Is this too much for you?”

His lips immediately shape _no, of course not_ but she arches an eyebrow at him.

“I won’t lie, I would like _very much_ to fuck you with this one. But I have no interest in doing something that disgusts you.” She smiles, tousling his hair as one might a favored pet. “Don’t be so quick to give away pieces of yourself.”

“But—mistress? I thought you wanted worship. I thought you wanted _obedience_. If I’m not obeying everything you ask, then how can I—?”

“There is value in submission, given willingly. There is less value in submission given because you know no other way to be.” She reaches out to him, beckoning, and he drops to his knees with barely a thought, crawling to the bed where he can kneel at her feet. She cups him under the chin, then caresses his cheek with the back of her hand. “I chose you, pet. You are cute, charming, and _worthy_ of being chosen. Remember that.” After a beat, she adds a sotto voce, “Also, if we can’t laugh about this after, then the sex wasn’t any good anyways.”

Danse chokes, wheezing laughter despite himself, and Red Lucy snickers and allows him to catch his breath as she strokes his cheek. Danse closes his eyes, sinking into the warmth of her hand. The firm press of her knuckles against his face.

By the rules of the game, if he is worthy of being chosen, then she is worthy of a considered response.

“I have never tried this before. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to _try_.”

Red Lucy laughs, lips curved in a sickle-moon smile. “I can ask no more.” She sits back on the bed, knees spread and hooking over his shoulders. He kisses her hand, breath stirring the fine hairs dusting the back of her knuckles. Her heels dig into his back, one hand twisting through his hair as she guides him into place.

She asked for worship, so Danse tries to _worship_. Red Lucy is gentle with her direction, using her knees to nudge him aside and her heels to pull him in whenever he misses the mark. He laves her with his tongue, long strokes from hole to clit and broad swirls that crinkle his lips against her pubic hair, his nose against the thick trail that runs down her belly. He breathes in the sweet musk of her cunt, tasting her copper-sharp and sweet on the back of his tongue.

But if this is duty, then there is pleasure in it too, in the familiar creak of his knees on an unfamiliar rug, his hands pressed on her thighs and his elbows on her knees. She hisses, pulling his scalp taut and making him ease the pressure as he tries to work out a pattern she might like. He wishes she’d give more guidance—and that’s a shock, that he’s _wishing_ for it, that sudden articulation of what he’s been craving all along—and like lightning striking the same arc twice, he realizes that he can _ask_ for it.

He looks up at her, across the swell of her belly and the heave of her chest, and asks. Begs, maybe. This is still worship, after all.

“Mistress? Please. Please talk to me. Tell me what to do.”

Red Lucy chuckles, licking her teeth. Were they always so sharp, or is that a trick of the light? They cast jagged triangles in his vision, spike-sharp as the cowlicks of her eyebrows. “Oh, _yes_. I like that. I like a man who knows his place.” She sits up, digging her heels to make him bow, and adjusts a pillow behind her. “Wrap your mouth around my clit. No teeth. Yes—ah—like that. Suck. Drag your lip— _oh_.”

Her body flexes, bends, and Danse moves with it. His elbow slips and her thigh clamps over his ear, and there’s a skull-crushing _pressure_ and heat as his body pulses in time to her moans, her high skittering gasps as she whispers she’s close, she’s close, and he leans in with her slick smeared across his jaw and his ass clenched tight because there are only so many ways to touch, to press, to feel utterly small and awed—

She claws his scalp as she comes, a ragged nail hooking behind his ear. It stings—he doesn’t _think_ he’s bleeding, but he’ll check later. He tries to keep going, but she pushes him away with a foot on his shoulder.

“Was that good? Mistress?” Danse asks, catching himself on his heels. Shoulders heaving, sweat damp on his spine.

Red Lucy throws her head back with a sharp laugh. He flinches, uncertain whether that’s mockery, but she grins. “That was good. Pass me the water.” She takes a swig, then passes him the bottle. “Drink.”

It’s cool and faintly metallic, still wet from her lips on the rim.

She smiles at him, taking back the water. “I’m going to breed you now. Are you ready, bitch?”

Oddly—’slut’ still makes him feel shame, and not the kind that he can eroticize. But ‘bitch’ doesn’t cause the same humiliation. Perhaps because Maxson never called him that. Or perhaps because Red Lucy says it without insult, a statement of fact. He is an animal to be bred, and he nods, accepting the fact. Accepting _her_ , as she dons her strap-on, cinching the buckles and slipping the dildo in place. The enormous cock looks disproportionate on her frame; Red Lucy is not a small woman, but that cock was never meant for a human scale.

Danse sits back on his knees, watching the light gleam off the long shape. Watching the heavy shadow it casts across the bed. His palms rest on his thighs, his spine straight in some semblance of attention. When Red Lucy stands at the edge of the bed, crooking her finger, he has no thought but to obey.

“Suck on me. Let my cock fill your mouth,” she orders, one hand on her hip and holding the lube syringe, and the other on top of his head. A light touch, but heavy with intent.

He looks up at Red Lucy. Holds up his hands as if in prayer, as if in offering, and at her nod he sets them at the base of the toy. It takes a two-handed grip to wrap around it, to support the weighty shaft as he drags his tongue from base to tip, dipping through every groove and dimple. He’s vaguely surprised by the taste; it’s plasticky, almost neutral. For some reason he had thought it would hold some of the same primal musk as the arena.

But as she said, it’s silicone. Not real.

The thought emboldens him, pressing his lips to the tip and giving a quick suck—too wet for a kiss, too narrow to actually take it in his mouth—before opening wide and wrapping his lips around the toy. He accidentally scrapes his teeth—oh, and _that’s_ an advantage of using a toy, not having to mind the teeth—before finding a comfortable spot behind the massive bulge, where he can relax his jaw and let it rest. It’s heavy on his tongue, smooth and surprisingly flesh-like, though without the warmth or softness of a real cock, the way it would give slightly beneath his tongue or how he could probe the slit to gather the taste of precome.

He looks up at her, mouth still full of her cock. This can’t possibly give Red Lucy any pleasure, not in a physical way, but her flushed face tells him otherwise. Oh. If she can’t _feel_ him suck, maybe just watching…

Danse tries again, focusing on what makes a good visual. He lets himself suck loud and noisy, leaving a wet shine behind his lips as he bobs his head. He tries stroking with one hand, running his hand along the base of the shaft and rubbing his thumb along the molded ridges. With the other hand, he reaches to Red Lucy’s thighs, feels the soft downy hairs leading to her groin, tries slipping a finger—

“No,” she says hoarsely.

He stops, looking up at her and starting to mouth an apology.

Red Lucy chuckles, stroking his hair. “It’s fine. But that’s not what I want right now.”

He nods, going back to work his tongue over the spit-slick curves of her cock. He gives a low moan, his own cock hard and aching, almost in echo, and Red Lucy finally pulls out of his mouth with a wet _pop_.

“Look at me,” she groans. Red Lucy looks down at him, face flushed and eyes bright, chest heaving. Her neck and shoulders are flushed too, as if the color has dripped down her face and across her body with arousal. “I’m going to fuck you now. Missionary, on your back. Like the good little bitch you are.”

Danse struggles to stand, knees shaking, and Red Lucy has to take his hand and haul him upright, then lay a pillow down for him as he gets on the bed. He lies back with his head on the pillow, knees spread and legs wide, but Red Lucy shakes her head and taps his thigh. He lifts his hips, uncertain, and she slides another pillow under his ass. She orders him to hold his knees, so he does, watching as she squirts—oh, _that’s_ how she does it, pushing the syringe so that thick white lube pushes from the tip of her cock—into her palm and rubs it across her cock. It squelches between her fingers as she massages it across the shaft. She then takes a second palmful, then a third, and he’s afraid to ask whether it’s experience or caution that’s making her use so much. But then the cock slips from her lube-slick fingers, hitting her knee with a _thwack!_ Danse has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Red Lucy has no such compunctions, shoulders heaving with a breathless chuckle. She catches him unable to hide his smile, and smiles back at him. “You’re allowed to laugh _during_ the sex, you know.”

“Yes, mistress,” he says, grinning, and just like that—any anxiety about taking the toy dissipates, leaving only anticipation. He draws his knees back, pulling them to his chest as he tries to present a good angle. Red Lucy sets the toy against his ass, slippery as it eases past his entrance, and _oh_ —

Just as with his mouth, that first tapered bulge is the most difficult, his body stretching to accommodate. There’s that familiar stretch, uncomfortable but not painful, the cool lube working to soothe as he tries to relax, tries to accept the new fit. But once past that bulge, he contracts again, breath hissing past his teeth as Red Lucy settles on top of him, hands braced around his shoulders as she thrusts her hips, sliding deeper, deeper. Every ridge of the toy flares into him, forcing him to stretch anew. Danse stays still, clutching his knees, but Red Lucy murmurs to rock with her, and he obeys. The pillow is too soft for him to really rock against, all his momentum lost in its cushioning, so he wraps his legs around her hips and grips the headboard, elbows jutting as he curls his belly, tries to push—

“I’m going to fill you up, over and over,” she breathes, hanging her head to nip the curve of his ear. He shivers, twitching. “I’m going to breed you like the bitch you are. Filling you with come until it drips out of your hot little cunt.”

Her words caress his neck, her hips punctuating every syllable with a gentle thrust. He’s weak, hot, helpless as she fucks him into the mattress, presses his spine into the dip of the bed. It’s easy to imagine the lube as semen, slick-hot and oozing out of him, smeared sticky between his thighs and dripping down his ass. Danse hopes she’s feeling it too, that maybe the hypnotic power of her voice isn’t just for him, that she’s feeling her cock as a part of her and that she can feel how eager he is, how tender. His own hard-on seems ridiculously soft, ridiculously small, grinding between their bellies as she rocks into him.

“I’m going to fuck your tight little cunt until it’s wet and loose. I'm going to pump my come straight into your womb. I'm going to fill you up until you lay for me. Do you understand, bitch?” Her teeth carve into his neck, and he lets out a groan, white-knuckled hands clutching the headboard. “I said, _do you understand_?”

“I’m—I’m—” He flails for words, unsure of the script. “I’m—I’m your bitch in heat, mistress. I swear. I’m—I’m going to take all your come. All of it. Please—” He whimpers as she thrusts into him, so hard it hurts, the knot pressed against his hole, _swelling,_ then an enormous pop and rush inside him, her thighs slamming his ass as she bottoms out. “Please, please. I’m a bitch in heat, I just want to get fucked—”

“You don’t just want to get fucked, you want to get _bred_. Say it.” She pulls back, the knot locked inside him, then slams back into him with a wet slap of skin. She keeps her body separated from his, her shirt sweat-damp and clinging to her torso, connected to him only by the cock buried deep. "Say you want my come in your cunt, bitch!"

“I want to get _bred_!" he cries, frantic as the length of her cock works its way in him. He imagines it depositing its load deep inside him, hot and wet. The words slip past his lips, so fast the words blur. As if the faster he talks, the faster she'll fuck. As if he's in heat, a desperate fire that can only be extinguished by her seed. "I want your come, please, please, knock me up—”

Her breath hitches, and she picks up the pace. Fast, brutally so—he feels himself stretch and pull around her, around the deathclaw cock, every ridge and bump of the toy making him keenly aware of how inhuman it is. There's a sudden flood of _wet_ inside his ass, the lube surging deep inside him and making it slicker, easier. But Red Lucy never stops fucking him. If anything, she goes faster after that first gush of lube—and it’s easier to fall into the fantasy, to think of her pumping him full of semen. Never stopping until he gives her the eggs she wants. And oh—maybe it’s better that he knows that he _can’t_ breed for her, that this is an impossible task. Because it means that she’d keep pumping him full of come, until he’s so loose that she could sheathe her entire dildo collection inside him. She’s domineering without being cruel, and that makes it easier to submit with body and breath and low, wordless moans—

“Look at me. Look me in the eye,” Red Lucy chides, and he has to blink his eyes open, vision swimming. The lights are simultaneously dim and bright and cast strange halos across their centers, catching her hair in a flaming crown as she holds herself above him. “Look at me and know that your pleasure is my whim, my gift.” Her voice drops in a low growl, teeth flashing. “Your body is your final offering, mine to treasure.”

His pleasure had been Maxson’s whim, too. Almost incidental to pleasing Maxson. Maxson’s pleasure had been his priority, Maxson’s gift was to consider Danse in the afterthought of his own orgasm—

_Fuck_ , no, no, this is one more thing that he won’t let Maxson touch, won’t let taint. He lets out a strangled whimper, and Red Lucy hooks a hand behind his shoulder, nails gouging white lines across his flesh and his body buckles beneath her. She could tear him open, climb inside the empty cage of his ribs and he’d be _grateful_ for the experience, after all the hard-sudden-hot feel of pain arcing through him, her eyes dark with the pupils blown. He lets out a pathetic mewl as he realizes _oh_ , he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming…

Danse spatters on both of them, his come smeared slick across her belly and dripping into his navel. Oh damn. Oh _damn_. His breath’s heavy in his lungs, wet paper bags trying to inflate as Red Lucy gives a final push, emptying the last of her load into him before undoing the harness. He’s too limp-limbed to react, to try to move away or pull out as she does so. She leaves the cock fully inside him, stoppering up the lube still in his ass while the straps of her harness dangle like an absurd tail. Red Lucy smirks, her thighs shining in the dim light with a mix of lube, sweat, and her own arousal.

He wonders if she orgasmed.

“That was an excellent display.” She pets his chest, long strokes with her palm and moving down the midline of his body, fingers trailing across his belly. “And how are you feeling, my breeder?”

Danse puts his heels flat on the bed, shifting. The toy isn’t painful, but uncomfortable now that he’s no longer aroused. Or perhaps that has something to do with the angle, now that Red Lucy isn’t wearing it. He finds himself surprised his belly isn't swollen.

“Good.” The base of the cock thumps against the bed, and he shudders. “Ah. Humble, mistress.”

“The desert humbles us all,” she says serenely. “There is no shame in acknowledging our desires.”

He blushes. “How do you learn not to feel shame?”

Her smile turns wry. “With practice. I am aware that my tastes are...esoteric. If I don’t _ask_ for them, I’d never get them.” Red Lucy takes a swig of water, then passes the bottle. Danse drinks slowly, listening as she continues. “I would rather have satisfaction than live with unfulfilled desire.”

Danse sets down the bottle, pulling back his knees as he starts easing the toy out of him, but Red Lucy halts him with a hand on his wrist.

“No. We’re not done yet, bitch,” she says affectionately. It might have been demeaning from anyone else, but she softens it by ruffling his hair. Danse allows her to coax him to the edge of the bed, knees wide as he leans back, and he bites his lip as she pulls the dildo out. She goes slowly, achingly so, and he bites his cheek at the unflattering squelches it makes on the way out. He squeezes his eyes shut as if it might shield himself from the embarrassment, feeling his hole twitch and flutter now that it's empty, feeling the wet drip of lube glopping its way down between his cheeks.

“Hold yourself open, breeder. Let me see how much was inside you.”

Eyes still shut, Danse places one hand on each side of his ass. Red Lucy’s gaze is heavy on him, and he shivers at each messy burst and dribble of lube leaking its way out.

“If I had the time—and toys—I’d set it up as a series,” she says quietly, still with that strange, serene confidence that had drawn him at the bar. “A series of cocks trying to fill my bitch with come. My sweet little bitch taking it all in his tight cunt, until he had the messiest, drippiest hole in the Mojave.”

Danse’s blush has gone beyond hot to searing, all through the layers of skin. He’s certain his very bones must be bright red at this point, but Red Lucy still sounds so _proud_ of him and that’s enough to keep his hands steady as he holds himself open for her.

When he’s done—or at least when she’s done watching, because he can still feel the sticky ropes and tendrils of it smeared down his ass—she leans on the bed and gives him a kiss. Her kiss is gentle, after all that—more lips than teeth, a warm hum against his shuttered mouth—and he melts back with wonder at the newness of touch.

“I feel no shame about what we’ve done. I chose you, and that meant you were worthy of being chosen. If you carry nothing else from this night, I hope you carry that certainty.” Red Lucy kisses him again, then reaches into her nightstand and Danse can’t help laughing as she pulls out a pack of raspberry snack cakes. She raises an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t expecting to be fed.”

Red Lucy snorts. “As if a healthy bitch doesn’t need feeding. _Especially_ not when he’s expecting his first clutch.” But she’s smiling, tongue firmly in cheek as she offers him the first cake from the pack.

He accepts, though hesitates rather than eats it. “Why _did_ you choose me?”

“You are handsome, well-built, and looked as if you might enjoy being told what to do.”

Danse stares at the cake in his hand, the powdered sugar dusting his fingers.

Maxson made him feel _special_ , and that’s the most utterly banal part of it, that Danse had felt so honored to be chosen. Maxson was handsome, charismatic, powerful. He could have anyone he chose, and he chose _Danse_.

“The last time someone chose me,” he says stiffly, wondering if he’ll regret the words as soon as they leave his mouth, “it was—it didn’t feel this way. I never thought that I was worthy of being chosen. I was struggling to live up to—up to expectations. Of who I was supposed to be.”

Red Lucy pets the back of his neck, letting him melt into the touch. Warm strokes with the palm of her hand, light scratching motions with her nails. Gentle, soothing.

“Then that reflects poorly on _them_ , and not you.”

“He never hit me,” Danse says, ashamed that’s the best defense he has to offer. “And he was just—busy. Important. It was selfish of me to demand more of him—”

“And when a hunter neglects their hounds, it still reflects poorly on the hunter.”

Danse breathes in. Out. Feels his ribs contract around this new thought, nesting somewhere beneath his diaphragm.

“Thank you,” he says, finally.

She rubs her thumb behind the curve of the ear, the hollow dip where his pulse drums to the surface. “I am no priest, and you’ve confessed no sins.”

Danse closes his eyes, leaning into her warmth. He’s certain he’s outstayed his welcome at this point. But some small, selfish part of him doesn’t want to leave until she actually throws him out.

“Stay the night,” Red Lucy says, surprising him. “You won’t be able to sleep in; I have an early morning. But you are welcome to stay.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“Life is hard enough. Let us add softness, where we can.”


	5. In Which Danse Gets Marked

The next weekly story session, Julie Farkas pulls Danse aside after lunch and asks if he’s going to Jacobstown.

“I can, if you think it’s necessary.”

She shakes her head, drumming her fingers against her forearm. “It’s not urgent, but it’s not something I can pay for at this time.” Her eyes are weary, and the spikes of her hair are already sagging in the desert heat. “At least, not enough to compensate for the trip.”

Danse bites his cheek. Caps are still in short supply, but the Followers haven’t had a problem with food or labor.

Julie isn’t asking for charity, but…

“I don’t require payment,” says Danse. “I enjoy traveling to Jacobstown, and I enjoy helping the Followers.”

“It can wait until we have the funds.”

“Do you pay yourself?”

“Irrelevant,” she replies automatically.

Danse shakes his head. He can hardly say that he is doing this out of penance—as if one former Paladin can make up for the lives destroyed by the Brotherhood—and if he did, he suspects it would be more to assuage his guilt than make amends. One can’t beg forgiveness from the dead.

So he thinks, _what would Deacon do?_

He tries a small lie. “I am going to Jacobstown anyway. Having a warm meal waiting when I come back would go a long way. That’s all.” The back of his neck itches, sharp and staticky, but it’s not like his synth chip keeps him from lying.

Behind Julie, two children are drawing a hopscotch grid in the dirt. Danse watches them play, hoping that if he looks distracted, he’ll look less of a liar.

Julie sighs. “ _If_ you’re going, we have some medical journals and seed packets to send them. Nothing urgent. Nothing you should go out of your way for.”

. . .

“Ooh, wouldn’t mind going out of my way for _that_ ,” Deacon chuckles, who started packing as soon as Danse told him the new itinerary. “Fresh air, great view, and one of the sexiest, lumpiest green—”

“I thought you were still seeing the King?”

“We’re not exclusive!”

Danse halts in the middle of folding his spare shirt. “You’re—but you’ve been seeing each other for weeks!”

Deacon bursts into laughter, thumping his chest as he starts wheezing. Danse blinks foolishly, ears singed with embarrassment, and starts cramming clothes and supplies into his pack without heed for organization.

“Oh, that’s a good one, I’m sorry,” Deacon cackles. “I mean, no disrespect to monogamy, but—we’ve talked about it, and that’s not our deal. It’s casual, friend.”

“How can you be _casual_ with someone you’ve been seeing for—”

“Weeks? Easy.” Deacon pats Danse on the shoulder, grinning.

“But Deacon, you’ve—how do you—” Danse boils himself into silence, certain that anything he’ll say will just get him laughed at.

Deacon tilts his head and strokes his chin. “You haven’t had a lot of relationships, have you?” His smile is gentle, no teeth, with a fractional lift at one corner. Danse identifies this as one of his smiles of teasing inquiry, not a mocking one.

Danse takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He sets the journals and seed packets at the top of the pack, cushioned by his clothing. “I have had—sufficient.”

“How many?”

Danse occupies himself by ensuring that the seed packets sit perfectly at the center of the bundle. “Two.”

“And how long were they?”

Had they ever really ended? Cutler had been transformed into an abomination and Maxson had exiled him, but surely that’s not the same as _breaking up_ —

“Four years. Each,” he says, before his memories can overtake his mouth.

“And no one since?”

Danse stiffens, tying his pack shut. “I have had mutually enjoyable sexual encounters, thank you very much.”

“But no one more than once, hm?”

“I am hoping to change that,” Danse says with as much dignity as he can muster, squaring his shoulders.

Deacon sighs, rising on tip-toe to tousle Danse’s hair. “Just try not to fall in love at anyone, okay?”

Danse resents having his affection compared to a hair-trigger shotgun, but Deacon mercifully drops it as they trek to Jacobstown. Deacon has little breath on the climb up, but makes his way to wheezing victory through the gates.

“If you followed my training regimen, you wouldn’t be in such pitiful condition,” Danse says. He hopes it sounds as snide as he meant it.

“If you were in such pitiful condition, _you_ wouldn’t follow your training regimen,” gasps Deacon. He flutters his hand, and Danse passes him a canteen. Deacon gulps it down, holding out a thumbs-up of gratitude.

The Jacobstown bulletin board has a new decoration, an old-fashioned blue award ribbon with a satin button. Silver stitching declares ‘#1 Town.’

“Aw, that’s sweet. I should bring presents next time. Do you think I could put some panties on the bulletin board?”

“Deacon, you don’t wear—” Danse stops himself. No, Deacon probably _does_. “Deacon, I think that would violate hygiene standards.”

“Hm. Good point. I’ll make sure they’re clean.”

Danse peeks sideways, and Deacon wags his eyebrows. Which lets Danse know that Deacon was _joking_ , just joking, and that gives Danse permission to chuckle along.

The medical journals go to Calamity, the seeds to Marcus, and Deacon attaches himself to the mayor like some variety of marine mollusk. Danse excuses himself to the main lodge, looking for the kitchen, but finds Keene sitting outside on a bench piled with clothing.

Keene’s skin is the soft indigo of desert sage in full sun, the corded muscles of his forearms rippling every time he draws a stitch through thick leather. His shirt bunches about his shoulders as he works, making Danse’s mouth go dry with sudden want. The bone needle in his hand is larger than Danse is used to, but hardly crude. It’s worn smooth with long use, and perfectly at scale against Keene’s bulk.

Danse coughs into his fist. “Hello, Keene.”

“Hello, human,” Keene says without looking up.

Danse shifts his balance between his feet, hands behind his back. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Keene snorts. “Your small talk can use some work.”

“Probably,” Danse admits, flushing. He eases his weight onto his right foot, then raises his left. Wonders if he should take that step, if he should cross that invisible boundary. “Need some help?”

“I don’t need help. But I won’t stop you.”

Which may be the closest Danse gets to permission, so he takes a seat next to Keene. The man has surprisingly deft fingers, though Danse’s own thumb throbs when he sees Keene pushing the needle without the benefit of a thimble. Perhaps mutant skin is thick enough to handle that pressure. Or perhaps it’s too difficult to find thimbles in their size.

Danse doesn’t consider himself especially skilled, beyond the basics of mending a seam or stitching a button, but fortunately that’s all that’s assigned to him. He takes a metal needle—more precious than pins or nails, these days—and takes a few attempts before managing to thread it, and focuses on buttons. Keene won’t say so, but Danse suspects that the smaller buttons might be more difficult for those large hands.

Danse also manages to stab himself no less than three times, biting down the pain and sucking his fingers each time. Keene doesn’t seem to notice, not until Danse finishes his last button and Keene says, “We have aloe, if you need it.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Danse says, shaking out his hand.

Keene snorts. “Have it your way, human.”

Danse slides his tongue across the back of his teeth, probing the divot of a premolar. Carefully, he asks, “I won’t call you ‘sir’ if you don’t want me to, but why do you keep calling me ‘human’?”

“Because you are. And because most of your names aren’t worth remembering.”

Danse’s breath catches. “I’m not—” The back of his skull crackles, want and longing in equal measures. “I mean, if you don’t want me calling you ‘sir’ outside the bedroom, it seems only fair that you don’t call me ‘human.’”

Keene cocks an eyebrow. “Fair point. Danse,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Heat flutters in Danse’s belly. Strange, how one syllable can sound so indescribably _filthy_ , said with Keene’s rumbling bass and rasp. How Danse’s own name is washed new and erotic.

“Not that I wouldn’t mind going back to the bedroom. If you wanted,” Danse dares to ask, looking up at Keene.

Keene chuckles. “Surprised you aren’t asking for a gangbang.”

“ _No_ ,” Danse blurts, spitting out the words before his brain can fully process them. “You’re good, I swear. I don’t want—I don’t need—”

Keene goes—not stiff, but still. When he speaks, lips tight, it’s as if the words might break his teeth. “You don’t have to.”

Danse stammers for justification. “I mean—you’re good enough. If I have displeased you, or if you think that I enjoy perversion—”

Keene curls his mouth, showing too many teeth to be a smile. “I happen to like gangbangs. I also like threeways and group sex. Guess that makes me a pervert.”

Danse’s drumming heart manages to slow its meter, to unstopper his throat long enough to speak.

“I—I am sorry,” he says stiffly. “I didn’t mean to offend. I was concerned that it might be a—a test. And I wanted to pass.”

“It wasn’t.” Keene’s voice is flat as he gathers the mended clothing.

“But I—what if I want it? Next time?” Danse asks, hoping that it doesn’t sound like the plea that it is.

Keene gives a sharp laugh. “Next time, then.”

Keene still has chores, so Danse follows him and tries to help. It seems the least Danse can do to earn his keep, and he would like to keep Keene in a good mood. So he spends time on his knees in the dirt, weeding the vegetable garden, and then goes to the kitchen to help scrub and peel potatoes for tonight’s dinner. Lily welcomes Keene by name, though Danse remains an affectionate ‘Jimmy’ as she passes him plates and glasses. She has a flowered apron today, with a line of ornamental buttons. One button is missing from the line, instead replaced by a yellow flower looped through the buttonhole. Danse stands on tip-toe, washing his hands with a sliver of soap and dredging his memory before recognizing it as a woolly daisy from Deacon’s prewar guidebook. 

Buoyed on pride and good-feeling, he eats dinner and even finishes the heaping plate of mutfruit crumble that Lily gives him. Danse then tries to join the washing up, but is gently shooed out by Neil.

“Sweetheart, go rest up,” he says gently, and Danse blushes at the unearned affection, but Lily takes his elbow and steers him out of the kitchen before he can open his mouth to embarrass himself further.

Keene’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “You still up for it?” He cocks his head, and despite everything, despite the sinking absurdity of Danse’s infatuation, despite the lingering doubts about whether or not Keene even _likes_ him, Danse _is_. He still wants Keene. He’d want this man even if he had to strip naked in front of the entire town to prove it. So Danse nods, and follows like a well-trained dog. He’d heel if Keene asked. He must look ridiculous like this, like he’s just Keene’s pet human, but if he’s going to belong to someone there are worse people to belong to—

Keene lifts him this time, just scoops an arm under Danse’s knees and drops him on the bed. Danse’s heart flips, thighs trembling as Keene turns him over to yank off his clothes. Danse cooperates, lifting his arms and fumbling at his belt ahead of Keene’s hands, but somewhere in the process they forget to take his boots off and his trousers roll down to his ankles before tangling. Keene snorts, not quite a laugh, and tugs at the bootlaces, undoing them enough to pry the boots off. The last of Danse’s clothing follows.

Danse shivers, completely naked and aware of his smallness next to Keene. His cock stiffens, warm against his belly, and he stares—no, shouldn’t stare, so he averts his gaze and peeks instead—up at Keene.

Keene folds a square of cloth into a neat rectangle, then kneels in front of Danse. “Blindfold?”

“Are we playing—are we playing ‘mean,’ then?”

“Nah. I like playing mean, but I’m just in the mood to be begged tonight.”

Danse’s heart knocks against the gate of his ribs, and he flushes. “I like begging. Sir.”

Keene grins, holding up the blindfold, and Danse closes his eyes. He leans forward to help Keene knot the blindfold behind his head. When Keene tugs, the fabric shifts behind Danse’s ear, but remains firm.

The bed creaks as Keene eases onto it, and Danse gives a startled whimper as suddenly Keene’s hands are gripping his thighs, lifting his lower body and dangling him back so his head and shoulders still rest on the mattress. Keene’s breath is warm between his legs, Keene’s tongue lapping up the tender skin where balls meet taint. His tongue is broader and warmer than anything Danse has experienced before, a wet drag along the skin. His breath rustles the fine hairs on Danse’s belly as he growls, “God, you’re such a pretty little slut.”

Danse’s stomach flips, and he chokes on sudden nausea. He stiffens, and only the press of Keene’s hands keeps him from drawing his legs together. “Please, sir. Don’t call me a slut.”

“Ah? Sorry about that.” Keene _does_ sound apologetic, and he gives an extra swipe of his tongue down the crack of Danse’s ass. For one heart-stopping moment Danse is unsure if Keene’s actually going to lick his hole, to get Danse all wet and ready for him. It’s a muddled, embarrassed sort of pride, because he’s _dirty_ but if Keene wants to touch him anyway…

“I—I like when you call me pretty, though. Or good boy.” He squirms as Keene’s tongue circles his hole, achingly close, and releases a low moan as finally, finally Keene licks him there, one broad stripe of tongue from hole to taint.

“Huh. You’re talkier than last time.” Keene presses with his lips, nibbling the tender skin over Danse’s groin.

Danse can’t read his tone, whether that’s pleasure or disapproval. He swallows. “I liked last time, too. I could be quiet if you prefer. Sir.”

“Could fuck your mouth again, then your ass. Keep it simple. Unless you want me to bite you? Mark you up?” Keene lets out a low growl, breath stirring the hair on Danse’s balls. “Make you mine?”

“Sir, yes, _sir_!”

Keene chuckles, lying down next to Danse with a low groan of the bedsprings. “Yeah, I like this. Like when you beg. But you know what you forgot, last time?”

“Sir?”

“You forgot to _thank_ me.” A massive hand settles over Danse’s head, tousling his hair. Then twisting, gripping so it pulls his scalp taut. Danse shudders, flush with warmth and excitement. “I want you to thank me for fucking you. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Keene growls approvingly, then grips Danse by the chest. Once again, Danse is manhandled—not roughly, but implacably. Struggle would be useless, assuming he even wanted to struggle. He is flipped, set on all fours with his head between Keene’s legs, his feet just brushing the man’s calves. The warm spice and musk smell of Keene is stronger here, and Danse opens his mouth obediently as Keene slides his cock to Danse’s lips.

Danse tucks his knees under him, kneeling so he can wrap his hands around Keene’s cock as he sucks. His tongue flicks over Keene’s slit, eliciting a low groan, and Danse tries a few different angles—sideways, almost kissing the massive shaft, then the other side so he can trail long licks from Keene’s balls all the way to the tip—before settling into one almost directly above the enormous cock. His cheeks bulge, trying to swallow down, a wet choke of saliva trickling past his lips as he tries to build a rhythm. How had he done this last time? He had been overwhelmed, stymied, _stimulated_ by Keene’s disdain, and now that Keene’s actually _talking_ to him it feels like a greater struggle—

Keene sets his hand on the back of Danse’s head, pushing him down, and suddenly everything feels _easier_ , simpler. World narrowed to just Keene’s cock, and the effort of pleasing Keene.

“Such a pretty little cocksucker,” Keene groans, rocking his hips. The bed quakes, trembles beneath them and Danse has to brace his elbows on Keene’s thighs, trying to keep from falling down and accidentally swallowing his cock. Danse’s mouth is just a wet tunnel, his tongue a soft lash of wet warmth as he spirals around Keene, as he laps the vein beneath the shaft, as he tries to take as much of Keene into his mouth as possible.

“I’m going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours, make you swallow this time. Gonna make you swallow every fucking drop.” Keene hisses, arching—his cock hits the back of Danse’s throat, and Danse nearly chokes, vision white and starry as he struggles for breath. “You like that? You hungry for it?”

Danse tries to answer, but his tongue just swirls over Keene’s thick cock, and his hands slip, struggling to reach around that girth. He briefly tries drawing back, trying to give a proper response, but Keene gives a dirty laugh and taps his head back down.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, human.”

Danse flushes, redoubling his efforts with a noisy suck of his cheeks and trying to slide his hands up and down, enough spit for lube that now he sets a wet rhythm of his hands all the way down to Keene’s thighs. Cautiously, he unwraps one hand and slides it down to feel Keene’s balls. They’re hot and heavy on his palm, large enough to overflow his hand. He’d love to feel those balls slapping his ass again, riding him _hard_ —

“Both hands back on my cock,” Keene growls, and Danse jolts back to position, feels that familiar jump of the vein and the way Keene’s cock bulges—

This time, Keene puts both hands on Danse’s head, holding him in place as waves of come fill his mouth. Danse swallows, then swallows again, but it overflows his cheeks and drips over his lips and chin, hot and slightly bitter.

“Good boy. Could do better next time,” Keene groans, hooking his hands under Danse’s arms. He lets Danse dangle as he shifts, easing back on the bed and setting Danse down to straddle his chest. “Next time, swallow _everything_.”

“Yes, sir,” Danse manages, tongue still thick with semen. He swallows a third time, dimly amazed by how _much_ there was.

“You look pretty with it all over you too, though. Hm. Can’t decide.” Keene chuckles, prying Danse’s knees wide across his chest, pulling them so they ache. Danse shifts, trying to set his heels on the bed and bumping the pillows. “Can’t decide if I like the idea of you _filled_ with come, or _covered_ in come. But you’re forgetting something. Remember?”

Danse flushes, feeling it all the way down his chest. “Thank you, sir.”

“And you’re thanking me for?”

“For your—for your cock. And your come. Thank you for letting me suck your cock,” Danse whispers. He holds his breath, afraid to move in case he jostles Keene, in case he falls forward on the man’s ribs. It would be close enough for a kiss, if Keene wanted. If, if, if.

“Louder. Like you’re _proud_ of it,” Keene growls, tightening his grip on Danse’s knees.

Danse groans. “Thank you for letting me suck your cock, sir!” He finally manages to find his balance, sitting back with his legs over Keene’s shoulders and knees wrapped close to Keene’s neck. He’s still aroused, unbelievably so, but his cock seems to have gone soft at some point. It quivers under Keene’s breath.

“Can always get you more of both.” Keene presses his mouth to Danse’s thigh, scraping his teeth along the flesh. He ghosts his tongue along Danse’s cock, close enough to feel the wet heat without giving Danse any release. “That’s what’s fun about gangbangs. We could pump you full on both ends. You ever been spitroasted?”

“No, sir.” Danse squeezes his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, shivering. It’s not a test, it’s not a test—Keene told him so, and he trusts Keene. This is not a test. Not a test of Danse’s loyalty, not a test for hidden perversions. Keene can speak his kinks without shame or reservation. Danse was only hoping to be forced into doing what he’s afraid to ask for.

Keene drops the topic and brings his mouth around Danse’s cock, taking him in with one long swallow. Danse whimpers, Keene’s lips against his hips, Keene’s nose digging into his belly, and he falls forward, grabbing the headboard for support as Keene starts sucking with slow, easy strokes of his tongue. His enormous tongue is easily as long as Danse’s dick, managing to envelop and swipe all the way to Danse’s balls without having to let up.

With Keene silent—at least not talking, though he still makes noises with his lips and mouth, the occasional rumble in his chest that resonates all the way through Danse—it’s easier to fall into the fantasy of Keene’s words. How easy it would be to be _used_ , an anonymous toy for people he would never have to see, never have to face. Blindfolded and passed around, his only mission being to please each person in turn—

There’s a wet-slick sound, and Danse dimly realizes that Keene’s only holding him with one hand now, cupping his ass and pulling him forward. The other hand grips him—wet, slippery, _cold_ —and Danse’s balls draw up, retreating into the warmth of his body. Keene presses a lube-slick finger to Danse’s ass, and this time there’s no resistance, only the faintest clench of his outer sphincter as Keene pushes inside. There’s no hesitation, because Keene’s _confident_ , Keene _knows_ he can take it, and that’s as much a turn-on as Keene’s strength. Danse clamps instinctively, thighs drawn together, but he can’t hold because Keene’s so much stronger than him, so much bigger. Even with Danse on top, Keene’s able to reach over him, to push into his ass and fuck him with the steady, relentless drive of his fingers.

Just as Danse starts to relax, to melt into Keene’s warmth, Keene licks his knee. Tender-ticklish in that soft bend of the leg, but then it becomes harder, biting. Danse winces, jerking away, but Keene curves his fingers inside Danse and it’s like he’s impaled in place, unable to escape the devouring mouth, the hard-edged teeth.

“If you want me to mark you, it’s gonna hurt. Is it worth hurting for?” Keene growls, breath hot against Danse’s thigh.

Danse grits his teeth, swallowing down a gasp. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Beg then. I’m only gonna keep going if you beg.”

Which Danse dimly realizes is its own sort of check-in, stripped of all the colors and ceremony of Beatrix’s session. He wonders if that means that Keene would use a safe word, if he asked. If Keene would bend him over his knee and spank him. If Keene would ever offer any of the hundred and one things that Danse has wondered about, or if Danse would have to ask each time.

“Please, sir. Mark me. Bite me—” His voice breaks, high and sharp as Keene bears down, teeth biting flesh, the wet heat of his mouth across Danse’s inner thigh. Like Keene might just carve a space into Danse, keep carving away until he fits. And it _hurts_ , there’s no way around it, and it’s not the dull pain of endurance or the bright-sharp pain of sudden impact but something that’s raw and messy, all spit and fluid as Danse cries out, cries, and most of all keeps begging because oh it hurts, it hurts, and he cries relief when Keene finally lets go.

Keene kisses him now, and it’s a swooning gentleness after all that. The first time Keene’s lips move without teeth, without menace or disdain. It’s like watercolors across Danse’s skin, a cool melt that saturates into feeling, feeling, beautiful feeling that is all the more wonderful after the harsh edges of pain. Keene pulls his fingers out, and Danse would protest except that Keene unwraps Danse’s legs from over his shoulders, moving him down the bed so that he can kiss the bend of Danse’s knee and the curve of his thigh. Danse leans into it, leans in even as Keene nuzzles the soft swell of belly and the teeth come out as Keene bites at his ribs, excavating a space inside him. Danse wants those fingers, wants _Keene_ , and is just hungry, empty, wanting more, begging for more, losing track of when the words blur between “please” and “thank you” and no longer sure what he’s even begging for.

Keene finally draws back, the hot-silk feel of his tongue dragging along Danse’s hip. Danse gives up on struggling because he’s just going to come in one long wave, one liquid ripple of warmth and feeling as Keene pulls Danse into his mouth, as Keene slides his finger into Danse’s ass. Danse comes across Keene’s tongue with a low moan, tight around Keene’s finger, sinking down and embracing the warmth of being filled, of being fucked at the same time that his cock’s in Keene’s mouth.

Danse is weak, shaking. It’s no effort—if it was ever any effort at all—for Keene to slide him down, one finger still in Danse’s ass. Danse sits across Keene’s hips while facing him, and Keene adjusts to a sitting position with Danse still spread across his lap. Keene’s other hand goes under Danse’s chin, tilting him up with a thumb and forefinger. Keene leans—Danse can feel the hunch of his posture, that incredible warmth shifting closer—

Keene presses his lips to Danse’s, more devouring than a kiss. His tongue pushes, spilling Danse’s own come back into his mouth. Danse swallows obediently, instinctively. Swallows his own seed back again, just as he had with Keene’s.

Keene kisses him this time, for real. A hard press of mouth, punctuated by biting Danse’s lower lip. He leaves Danse wet and throbbing.

“You swallow so good.” Keene sounds exhausted, or maybe impressed. He strokes Danse’s cheek, one large finger tracing from brow to jaw.

“Thank you, sir.”

Keene presses his nose under Danse’s ear, breathing deep. Danse shivers at the warm stir of breath, fine hairs standing up on end. Keene could _inhale_ him, and maybe—maybe Danse would like that. Danse’s limbs are still weak with orgasm, but trembling with want. Keene presses with his lips, his tongue. Gives a long, hard suck with his teeth. Gentle at first, but biting. Gnawing. Traveling across Danse’s shoulder, down his chest. Danse aches with it, hurts with it. Sore and throbbing. Keene shifts his grip, lifting Danse with one hand—finger still in his ass, Danse pinned to him like a ribbon on a corkboard—and bites down his ribs, his belly, Keene’s other hand holding him in place, keeping him from writhing away from that consuming mouth. Vast swathes of flesh made into sweet pain, Danse’s breath leaving him in whimpers. Keene scrapes a tooth along his left breast, almost to the nipple, and Danse lets out a whine.

“Too much?”

“Nngh...no, it’s—it’s good, sir.” He’s not sure if it really is, but he’d rather try than give a reason to stop.

Keene bites down, pinching Danse’s nipple between his teeth, and Danse keens, high and loud, arching his back to escape—but it only _pulls_ , skin taut and tit throbbing, throbbing, hurting, and this time Keene stops but Danse finds himself just begging for more, a mash of words and whimpers until Keene starts biting, starts pinching, and Danse is alive with electricity inside his skin, all sensation and synapses—

“Ready for my cock?” Keene crooks his finger inside Danse, curling. His lazy drawl says he knows the answer, but Danse lets out a frustrated sob anyway. “Beg me for it.”

“Please, sir. Please—” Danse’s voice catches, mind blank. “Please put your cock in me. Please. I’ve never been fucked so good, I swear. Please, sir. I want—I want to break on you. _Please_.”

“Spread your legs nice and—yeah, like that—”

Danse straightens his legs, straddling wide and sinking with Keene’s grip as Keene pulls his finger out of Danse’s ass. There, there. Keene’s cock presses against his ass, sliding between his cheeks, tickling at his taint before Keene adjusts, and it slides—oh, _oh._ There, there. Sinking down Keene’s length, his ass and body trembling with the ache of it. There, _there_. Sliding all the way down, the lube cool against the burn of the stretch, that feeling of warmth and massive _fullness_ as he sinks until his ass rests against Keene’s balls, his thighs wrapped around Keene’s hips in one single, perfect moment of satisfaction. Hurting with the fullness of it, the throb of Keene’s cock all through him.

“Thank you, sir,” Danse remembers to say, and is shocked to find it’s true. He’s _grateful_ for this, for every inch of Keene inside him. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then Keene starts moving.

Danse cries out, gripping—he’s not sure where, clawing, his nails sliding off the wall of Keene’s chest. Keene plucks his hands, setting them in place. Danse holds on tight to Keene’s arms, the solid flex of Keene’s biceps as Keene grips Danse by the waist, rolling his hips and lifting, shifting him. All of Danse’s weight suspended in his hands, just manhandled like Danse is _nothing_.

“Make some noise,” Keene growls. “I want to hear how much you like getting fucked.”

“I—I do, sir. I like—I _love_ getting fucked like this. Love getting fucked by you,” Danse whispers. Another loud whimper escapes his lips. His shame is dry tinder, his heat is desire. His chest still burns, marked. His hair’s matted with sweat. He’s an absolute disgrace to everything the Brotherhood ever stood for, getting fucked— _willingly_ , repeatedly, coming back for _more_ —by a mutant, but all of that can go on the pyre, all of that’s gone. Dead. Ash on the breeze.

He is Danse, ex-Paladin, and he’s getting fucked by a nightkin in a town named after another ex-Paladin and oh fuck _oh fuck_ not even Maxson ever made him feel this good. His dick’s soft and wet and flopping between his legs as Keene bounces him harder, harder, faster, and he’s full and aching and tipping over the edge, like he’s going to spark like gunpowder, like he’s going to explode—

He comes.

He _comes_.

He didn’t know he could do that, didn’t know he could come without ejaculating, without his dick being hard, but it rocks through him as he grips with his knees. He clutches Keene, nails digging into skin, his blindfold damp with sweat and—tears? When did he start _crying_ , the sex was _good_ , why was he _crying_ —as he lets out a wet whimper.

“God, you feel good around my cock,” Keene grunts, and then he comes too. One last thrust, body rigid as he squeezes Danse tight, crushing the breath out of Danse before rolling back with a long sigh. He pulls back, coming out of Danse in a slick rush, and sets Danse aside to lay panting and disoriented, cheek mashed into the blanket and the air thick with rut.

Keene groans, shuffles. The bed creaks as he adjusts, dressing himself. Finally, he rolls back on the bed and undoes Danse’s blindfold, patting him on the back.

“You okay?”

Danse swallows, sitting up but still hazy. “Yes, sir.”

There’s still no cuddling, no offers of a cuddle, but at least they’re warmer than last time. Keene continues touching him, shifting from slow, heavy pats to long strokes, rubbing Danse from his shoulders down to his ass. The bruises flare beneath his touch, hands dipping between the crenellations of teeth, and Danse blurts out the first question that comes to mind.

“Do all mutants—do they all recover so fast, or is it just you?”

He bites his tongue. It wasn’t what he _wanted_ to ask, not really, but it slipped out. So he adds a “Sir?” in an effort to sweeten it. He keeps his gaze fixed on the bedspread, the rumpled blankets and the wet spots of lube and semen.

Keene’s silent for a long while, and Danse wonders if he just destroyed whatever fragile connection they might have shared.

Finally, Keene says, “We all do, I think. At least all the ones I’ve slept with.”

And this still isn’t the question Danse wants to ask, but he’ll take any excuse to linger in Keene’s bed, to soak up the residual affection of Keene’s warmth. “And you said—you said you like. Erm. Gangbangs. What do you like about them, sir?”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’ unless we’re fucking. It’s annoying,” Keene growls, and Danse swallows his words. “But I like sharing. Showing off a favorite toy.” His hand settles on Danse’s back, spanning shoulder to shoulder. He squeezes. “I like wet. I like messy. I like bodies getting filled. And when it’s with friends, it’s about camaraderie. All ganging up to give someone a good time, to just let them be at the center of attention.” Keene gives a low chuckle, resting his thumb and forefinger around Danse’s neck. Like a collar that remains unclosed. “And when it’s mean? I know why you humans want to fuck me. You want the giant with the cock. The monster with a mean streak, tearing you apart.” He squeezes, again, like he might hook beneath Danse’s skin and rip him open. “I don’t like humans, but I like fucking them. And it’s nice to watch someone else take over fucking them. Is that honest enough for you?”

“I’m not human,” Danse says softly.

Keene snorts. “You pass a hell of a lot better than I do.”

“Looking human wasn’t enough for—for some of the people I used to know. I did everything they asked of me, and they still cast me out.” Danse laughs, despite himself. It feels like a fist unclenching from his lungs. “ _I_ thought I deserved to be thrown out.”

Keene’s hand still sits across Danse’s shoulders, heavy but not possessive. Danse holds his breath, fingers tracing old memories as he touches the back of his neck, just above Keene’s hand. He holds Keene’s finger between his own thumb and forefinger, delicate as a flower, brushing the ridge of his occipital crest as he guides Keene to his chip’s resting site. As if Keene couldn’t bruise him with a touch. Couldn’t hurt him without a word.

Quietly, Danse says, “There’s a chip, there. Maybe an inch below the surface. Impossible to get at without surgery. I’ve been reprogrammed at least once that I know of, and I don’t—I don’t know if it gets any easier. But I like—I like you. The way you’re comfortable in your skin. The way you’ve built a community, here.”

Keene sighs.

Silence stretches between them, heavy as the air before the rain.

Finally, Keene says, “You know why we founded Jacobstown?”

“A little.”

“Yeah, Marcus and his human friend. Great rallying cry for friendship and unity. But we founded Jacobstown because we _had_ to. Not a lot of places would take us in. You get some outliers like Son-of-a-bitch in Westside or that runt from the Capital Wasteland, but the rest of us? Nah.” He snorts, rolling his shoulder back and stretching. “We were all soldiers, once. _Made_ to be soldiers. I don’t think we were ever meant to live apart.”

Danse swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “I was a soldier once. I thought it meant I belonged. But I only _looked_ human, and—” He clamps his mouth shut, remembering Harkness’ words. Brotherhood still gets shot around here. Clumsily, he tries to change the subject. “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Looking human.”

A long pause. Keene’s hand goes still, the thumb resting over the fragile chip in Danse’s skull.

“No. Not anymore.”

Which only begs more questions, and Danse swallows down his want as he puts a hand on Keene’s thigh. The broad meat of the upper leg, the minute contraction of muscle fiber and tendon—mutants are biological constructs, as much as any synth. Golems of flesh and bone.

“I like my body. I don’t think I’d fit in anything smaller.” Keene chuckles, brushing Danse with one long stroke of his knuckles. Down the skull, and all the way down the curve of his spine. “You know we’re just fucking, right? I’ll listen if you want to talk, but I’m not your therapist.”

Danse shuts his eyes, warm and boneless beneath Keene’s touch. He leans into Keene’s chest, presses his cheek against the broad sternum. Feels the man’s heart beat beneath the bone, thinks his own might try to match its tune. “I know, sir. I mean—I know, Keene. But I would like to keep seeing you, if I may.”

“Sure, we can keep fucking. Like I said—” Keene shifts, sitting up and making Danse sit with him, making Danse open his eyes to see Keene’s wry smile, “—takes a lot worse than you to hurt my feelings.”


	6. In Which Danse Gets Humbled

“I am glad that you can take centuries of culture and tradition and condense them to a joke,” Danse says drily, cupping his still-warm mug of coffee. It’s their first morning back in Freeside, and he’d surprised Deacon with coffee and pineapple buns from a different bakery than the one they usually go to. Danse still has no idea what pineapple tastes like, as the baker informed him that the buns don’t contain the faintest hint of fruit, instead being named after the scored pattern of the baked topping. They’re tasty, regardless.

Today’s volunteer project had been cataloguing the Followers’ latest book delivery. Though ‘cataloguing’ was overstating Danse’s own role, as he had been recruited to haul crates and shelves where they were needed. He misses his power armor on days like this—but doesn’t miss the way it set him apart. Power armor, for all its civilian uses, had originally been designed for combat.

He wonders if intention matters as much as practice.

“It’s not a joke! It’s a _mitzvah moose_!” Deacon exclaims, shaking the plushie at Danse. The blue animal’s electric candles no longer work, but Deacon butts the antlers against Danse’s shoulder.

“I highly doubt that such a creature ever existed. Prewar or not.”

“Hey, if _radstags_ can glow in the dark, why not mooses? Meeses?”

Danse bites his tongue, unwilling to concede the point. “Deacon, you’re goyish. Do you even know what a mitzvah is?”

“It’s a blessing, a gift! Or if you want to go all Merriam-Webster on it, ‘a kindness in keeping with law or religious duty.’ Therefore, it is a gift. For my friend.”

Danse sighs, opening his arms to embrace the moose.

“Besides, it’s all your fault, you know,” Deacon informs him.

Danse snorts. “How so?”

“If _you_ hadn’t given me a gift, then _I_ wouldn’t have given you a gift. It’s like birthdays! Social obligations perpetuating into perpetuity.”

A glance at the calendar confirms that yes, ‘perpetual’ is the word of the day. Danse snorts again.

They finish their snack, and once Deacon leaves—another date, for which Deacon dons their shiny new magnetized they/them button—Danse is left deciding what to do.

Danse still wears Keene’s bruises like bandoliers, every inch aching. They’re a livid red-purple when he looks down his shirt, tender where the fabric chafes. He’d craved that rough touch, and doesn’t regret it.

He only regrets its absence.

So he goes to the Wrangler.

. . .

“So you want to be humbled, huh?”

Beatrix grins, leaning back with an elbow on the bar. She takes a drag off her cigarette, blowing smoke back out through the long gashes of her nostrils. It’s coyote tobacco, more green and bitter than the cigarettes he’s encountered back in the Commonwealth. “I can do that.”

Danse writhes in his seat. His sarsaparilla sits in front of him, untouched. It had felt easier, back in the apartment. Easier, thinking about how easy it was for Red Lucy to state what she wanted. He wonders if it only gets easier with time.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but I don’t want—I don’t want to be shamed. Embarrassed is good. Humble is good.” It’s embarrassing just to sit down and _talk_ about it, but he likes Beatrix. Or thinks he could like her. She cracks jokes and waves hello when he visits. He would hate it if she thought it was solely transactional.

“Shamed how?”

“Insulted. Or told that what I want is—is bad. Or dirty.”

“Easy enough. You want to finish your drink, or…?” She cocks what’s left of one eyebrow. “You can bring it upstairs, you know. Trying to chug it now just might mean a piss scene.” Beatrix cackles as he chokes on his sip. “Okay, no watersports.”

Still sputtering, Danse takes the bottle and follows her upstairs. Her spurs clink on each step, her stride loose and purposeful.

The room doesn’t take him by surprise this time, though what _does_ surprise him is that she immediately goes for a bow-shaped curve of wood, with a hole between the join.

“You want to be humbled? Meet the humbler.”

Beatrix talks him through it, though most of her words go in one ear and out the other as he struggles first to understand what she means, then to understand why it elicits such an immediate _oh_ from his cock. She talks with him about traffic lights again—red, yellow, green—and he wonders again if she’s old enough to remember the world before the bombs, wonders if he’ll get a chance to ask, but he drops from his head and into his body as she orders him to strip, to lay out his boots and clothing in neat pieces on the bed. Disassembled, like a rifle field-stripped for cleaning. Each layer coming off feels like a long breath being released, a deliberate exhale as his consciousness retracts from all extensions of him to just _him_ , square in his own body. Sinking into his skin, shivering under the cool air of the overhead fan. The air moves around him, over him, and his body is still. Sunk like a stone in a stream, only throbbing when the hair prickles across his bruises, across the remnants of teeth.

Beatrix chuckles. “Oh, I _know_ those bites. You’ve been up to Jacobstown, hm?”

“Is it that obvious?” Danse whispers. He can’t even be embarrassed, not when it’s that blatant. Not when he’s already naked in front of a woman who’s had her fist up his ass.

“Mhm. Most people’s teeth aren’t bigger than my hand.” She swipes her palm across his shoulders, then pats his thigh with a chuckle. The bruises flare beneath her touch, a red dull pain, but it only reminds him of a good night, a good time, and that’s enough to keep him still. “Sit, then. Let’s clamp those pretty tits of yours.”

Danse near-crumples onto the bed, ass hitting the mattress and making the frame creak. He holds his breath, not wanting to disturb Beatrix as she leans close. Uncertain what else to do with his hands, they remain folded in his lap while Beatrix presses her palm flat against his chest. His heart hammers beneath her calluses.

“Pick your poison. Clothespins or thumbscrews?”

The words don’t make sense, he doesn’t understand, and that confusion must show on his face because she chuckles and pats his cheek. Danse struggles not to lean into that touch, that tiny token of affection.

“Here, let me show you.” Beatrix walks to the dresser, a deliberate heel-toe stride that echoes in this small room, and comes back with something—some _things_ —in each of her hands. She holds them up in front of them, turning them slowly as if displaying precious gems. Two wooden clothespins, the ubiquitous type with the metal spring. And two metal clamps, set with tiny screws that would tighten them like a vise.

“Clothespins,” Danse says, wincing at the cold gleam of the screws.

Beatrix nods, dropping the clamps onto the dresser with a rattle. She runs her fingers across his chest, nails scraping the skin. Palm crinkling the hair of his body, making him feel flammable. Expectant, like tinder before a match. He holds his chin high, closing his eyes to avoid staring at the exposed tendons of her neck, the dry-rough patches of peeling skin. Maybe he should be repulsed, but if he’s learned anything in the past few weeks, it’s that desire follows its own course. So he breathes in the dry warmth of her, clean leather and sarsaparilla, as she pinches his nipple. Gentle, rolling the soft bud between her fingers, pulling taut. Fixing the pin just behind the tip, flush with the areola. He gasps on the inhale, throat caught somewhere between a groan and a squeak, but manages to stay quiet as she pinches the other clothespin in place.

Once past the immediate pinch, it’s not so bad. It dulls to a throb, a relentless pressure without relief. The clips wobble, just slightly, as he inhales. It tugs his skin with that small movement, and Danse finds it easiest if he keeps his breaths slow and even, trying not to jostle.

“Oh, don’t you look pretty. Bet you’d look even prettier with a whole zipper,” Beatrix croons, patting the swell of his pectoral. Unsure how to respond, Danse makes an affirmative noise. “Now let’s tie you up.”

It’s soothing, gentle even, to hold his hands in front of him as she takes her rope, folds it in half, and starts wrapping it around both wrists. He has the impression that Beatrix could do this faster, if she chose—something about her unhurried pace, the way she takes the extra time to stroke his wrists, to pat his bicep—but is instead relishing the whisper-friction of the rope across his skin, the snug bite as she wraps the working end around the slack between his wrists. It’s a simple tie, but no less precise as she slips a finger between the ropes and his skin, humming softly. She continues working, creating a shackle that she uses to steer him onto the bed.

“I love rope. It’s the perfect gift wrap for everybody. Every _body_ ,” she adds with a chuckle.

Danse looks down at the clean lines of ropes across his skin. There’s a geometric precision to her ties, like she is an artist and he is her canvas. He hadn’t noticed that, last time. Or perhaps it was that he hadn’t taken the _time_ to notice, overwhelmed by everything else.

As if reading his thoughts, Beatrix says, “This is easy stuff. I could dress you up in diamonds, next time. Wrap you up in rope, with little pinchy clothespins all over. Tie your wrists to your crotch, or to a hook up your ass. Everything to keep you squirmy or still.”

Danse has no idea why a hook would go up his ass, but—next time, next time. That’s a promise that there’ll _be_ a next time, that _this_ time won’t break him, won’t take him where he can’t follow.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice rasps with the sheer relief of that acknowledgment.

“Kneel. Hands and knees, on the floor.”

He obeys mechanically, the limbs and levers of his body moving into place. On his knees, scuffing the rug beneath his shins. Bent forward, fists on the ground. Prayer-like in its humility. Fingers together, elbows parallel. He shivers, taking a sharp inhale as Beatrix slides the humbler behind the curve of his thighs, dragging it along the skin. Tauntingly slow, fixing the central cuff—that odd hole where the two bars join—around the base of his scrotum. Danse holds his breath as she tightens it into place, the curved device resting just under the curve of his buttocks, tugging his balls away from his groin. His cock flops forward, still soft, though the tingling in his blood tells him that’ll soon change.

“You’ll want to keep this position, or it’ll hurt,” Beatrix rasps, breaking into a dry chuckle.

Danse involuntarily flexes his thighs, jolting the bar—and that small motion pulls his balls from his body, wrings him out and keeps him bent over. Pulled like a string of taffy.

“Or maybe you want it to hurt?” she murmurs, voice shifting as she moves behind him, kneeling. Her hand’s on his back now, rubbing his ass with an absent-minded gesture as she pats him with the other hand. Light flicks against his thigh, hard enough to tap the skin, to make the sensitive flesh sting and jiggle. Traveling up his inner thigh, then an ominous pause, a breath of hesitation before she flicks his balls. Straight into the testes, a jolt of sensation that makes him whistle through his teeth.

It should hurt—and it _does_ —but there’s also the rush of heat in his chest, dripping through his belly and into his cock. Hard and wet at the same time, all feeling magnified. Like the rush of endorphins after a hard run, like the thrill of victory after a match.

“Green?” she asks. There’s a grin laced into that word.

His words are half moan, all approval. “Green, ma’am.”

Beatrix flicks him, slaps him. Grips his balls in her dry hands, nails prickling the skin as she gives the lightest of twists, and _oh_ that would send him to his knees if he weren’t already on them, all pressure and torsion and _oh_ —

“Always cracks me up, when people think balls are about bravery,” Beatrix chuckles, knuckles on his ass as she gives him a backhanded swipe. Not enough sting to be a spank, not enough force to be a true blow, but it’s exquisite agony on top of skin already sensitized to her touch. “‘Got the balls for it? Go grow a pair,’” she rumbles, a gruff imitation of machismo. She hefts him in her palm, fingers loose around the sack. “Balls are such fragile things, really. Takes hardly any pressure—”

Danse wheezes, breath squeaking up into his nasal passages as she squeezes.

“—for me to crush ‘em in my bare hands. But you’re a good boy, aren’t you? So we’ll keep it nice and easy.”

He’s exposed, hobbled by the bar fixing him in this kneeling position, by his hands in their ropes. His balls on display, exposed to her gentle cruelty, to every touch and puff of air. His ass—oh damn but his ass shares that same rush of heat, all the blood tingling through his crotch and surrounding regions. Danse can feel himself spread for her, knees wide and asshole open, _hoping._

If she were Maxson, she’d take that as invitation and slide her finger inside, maybe a cock—

“Want a plug in your ass?” she asks cheerfully.

Danse flushes, grateful that she’s asking. Even more grateful that he doesn’t have to beg for it. “Yes, ma’am.”

He hears the familiar wooden scrape and rummage of Beatrix going through her toys, then the squelch of lube. Something cold smears down his ass and over his taint, thick and greasy, but he welcomes the chill. The tip of the toy presses against his ass, lining up with the sphincter, and then it’s just one full _push_ and it’s inside him, his body clenching around it in welcome as the flared base jostles his cheeks. Danse is full, achingly so, cock hard and untouched even as his balls still sting and throb.

“You were hungry for it, weren’t you? Your ass just gobbled it up.” Beatrix pats his flank, making him squirm with embarrassed pride.

Danse gives an awkward _mmn_ noise, vague confirmation. Can't think, can barely operate the clumsy machinery of his body, struggling to keep his arms under him and his legs spread, struggling not to collapse beneath the weight of Beatrix’s hands and heat and the desire to rut against the floor. He’s deep in his head, his body, his nerves lit up red and singing as Beatrix nudges her boot against his balls, the smooth-worn leather of her toes digging under his scrotum and lifting. He whimpers as she gives the gentlest of prods, not even a kick, really, but that heartbeat of fear between when she pulls back and when she brings her boot under his balls feels like an eternity—

“You ever been kicked in the balls, boy?”

He has, he has, but never like this, never like _this_. He might like it, she might _make_ him like it, but he can only give a wheezing gasp and shake his head. _No, no, please. Don’t_ , he’d beg, if he could make his lungs work, if the words weren’t just tinder on his lips.

“Boy. Talk to me. Red? Yellow?”

Danse mumbles, his mouth wet and sticky. Lips wet with saliva, with the effort of speech. “Yellow. Ma’am.” He could resent her, almost. He’s trying to sink deeper into the sensation, shut down all the self-doubt and quiet demons and just let himself _be_ , but it’s hard when she keeps asking him to make words, to make choices. He knows why she’s giving him choices, why she’s making him talk, but that doesn’t change what he _wants_.

“Why yellow? What do you need to slow down?”

“Please, don’t—don’t kick. Pressure’s good. Boots are good. But no kicking. Please.”

“Got it. I won’t kick you, boy. I’ll just let you feel my boot a little,” Beatrix croons. Her dry hands are a comfort and a torment as she massages his flank, flicks his testicles and makes him groan, makes him grovel, makes him alert for every small movement of her boots scraping the worn floorboards, the mattress creaking beneath her weight. She props one of her boots on the small of his back, and he strengthens his spine against the weight. He’s a good boy, and if his only purpose is as her stool then he’ll be a good stool—

She shifts her weight, the lightest prick of cold metal against his skin. Oh. _Oh_. Her spurs, the dull spikes drag along his skin, a wicked jangle as she leans into it and sends them spinning. The sound’s a torment, and he shuts his eyes as if that’s any kind of shield against the way it sparks electricity through his heart, fear and anticipation muddled in a bitter cocktail that leaves him craving more…

“I think your tits are about ready to come unpinned, don’t you?”

He mumbles assent. Agreement. Obedience. Whatever she wants, it’s all hers.

She straddles his back, the warm leather smell of her embracing his hips, her knees gripping his ribs. Danse groans, bones creaking as she shifts forward. Beatrix could crush him if she chose, ride him around the room and oh, _oh_ maybe that’s a thought for another time, saddle him up and make him go, but for now he struggles to stay steady as she removes the clothespins. He had gone almost numb, accustomed to them, but as the blood surges back through his tits it _burns_ and tingles and he cries out, high and sharp as Beatrix cackles. She slaps and massages his chest, pinching cruelly to make him gasp, to make him jerk his legs and _oh_ that jostles the humbler and _oh_ his balls want to pull tight against him but they’re taut in the grip of that device, and he wants, and he wants, and he doesn’t know _what_ he wants except to be consumed by her. He’s nothing for her, he’ll _make_ himself nothing for her, abnegation as an art. He is packed small, arms bound and hobbled by the humbler, and when she asks if he wants to come, it’s strange and distant, like a prayer only half-remembered, and he tells her _yes, yes, please, if you’ll let me_. Beatrix flips him over, easy as he might toss a pillow, and he’s on his back, still helpless, but she prods his junk with her boot and his cock twitches, _hard-hurt-good_ before she presses down, flattening his cock to his belly as he whimpers.

“Touch yourself. Finish.”

And he _tries_ , he tries, and it’s not just that he’s suddenly desperate for orgasm but that she’s giving him _permission_ , she _wants_ him to come, and he wants to be a good boy for her, so he struggles to get his hands into position. The ropes make things awkward, he has to shimmy his elbows tight against his ribs so he can bend his arm at the right angle, and the rope chafes his belly if he goes too fast, but it’s hot and messy and _wonderful_ and when he comes, balls drawn tight against the boards of the humbler, it jolts through him like lightning, white-hot in its intensity, and oh _fuck_ this was…

Danse heaves inside his skin, body filmy with sweat. His breath rasps through the hollows of his chest. Like he’s been scoured, cleansed. Emptied.

Beatrix gentles him out of the humbler, murmurs soft-nothing words as she unties his hands, as she massages his wrists and bends his arms and performs all the thousand little check-ups and diagnostics that Danse never knew, that Maxson never did. Danse is—was—an object, to be controlled and humbled and delighted, cherished for the pleasure he can give. And every object requires care and maintenance, as a shirt is washed, a gun is cleaned, and a dog is fed and brushed and given a warm bed where it can love its master. Danse knows he’s paying Beatrix, that this is part of her service, but it’s still hard not to think _oh_ , she’s being so much kinder than Maxson ever was…

In that twilight state between play and fatigue, his thoughts blur. His tongue is sticky, staticky. Maxson was just another shock, one bad impulse across the synapse that still separates ‘Danse’ from ‘person.’

Danse must have mumbled something, must have said something, because Beatrix chuckles as she wipes down his shoulders with a damp cloth.

“Your ex was an asshole. Fuck ‘em. Better yet, _don’t_ fuck ‘em.” Beatrix hums softly, working her way down his ribs. Slow, gentle. Like she’s strumming the keys on a piano, testing the music of his body. “I’m not a therapist, kid. The only CBT I do is cock and ball torture. But negotiation matters. Doing kink—and doing it for pay—just makes it more transparent. Or else it’s just abuse.”

“I never said ‘no,’ though. I never told him to _stop_.” Danse hates how pleading he sounds, even now begging absolution for a man that’s probably dead.

“I’m going to guess that you didn’t feel comfortable telling him to stop. That you didn’t feel _safe_ telling him to stop.” She shifts, rubs a gentle knuckle down the ladder of his ribs. It is just shy of ticklish, a grounding pressure that makes Danse sink into her touch. “If you don’t feel safe saying ‘no,’ does ‘yes’ truly count? Nah, don’t answer that. I’m not trying to quiz you into giving me the answers I want. Just trying to give you something to think about.”

“I’ve been trying to grow. To change. To be—to be better than I once was.” His throat clogs, a vile whiskey-choke of nausea. If Beatrix had been at the Slog—if Danse had still been in the Brotherhood—if, if, _if_ — “I wasn’t a good person back then either. Why do I get to change and not _him_? Maybe I could have changed his mind—”

“Here’s a wild idea, kid. What if—just _if_ —we all collectively decided that volatile, hostile men _aren’t_ everyone else’s problem to fix? That it’s _especially_ not the job of the people they’ve hurt?”

Danse swallows down the guilt, the relief, the sudden guilt for _feeling_ relief, every word a link in the chain that holds him anchored. “I’ve hurt people too. And I’ve been fortunate enough to be taken _in_ by the people I’ve hurt. They showed me kindness when I needed it most, and I just—what if he’d gotten that same chance—”

“And why do you think he deserves more kindness than you?”

_Because he was an exemplar of humanity. Because his soul was forged from eternal steel. Because he gave me unlimited shower privileges and extra rations of snack cakes. Because it wasn’t his fault that we couldn’t hold hands in public. Because it wasn’t his fault I couldn’t stay the night. Because—because—_

The guilt unspools from his gut, and into silence.

Beatrix helps him get dressed, and lays a dry kiss on his forehead. It is more brisk than romantic, and—remembering Harkness’ tip from last time—Danse makes sure to give Beatrix another string of caps.


	7. In Which Danse Gets Gangbanged

Danse agonizes over his decision to return to Jacobstown, mentally rehearsing how he’ll tell Deacon, what excuses he’ll make. He starts collecting small gifts: a cake of white soap, a bottle of tequila, a half-dozen needles, including a needle-threader and a button sampler. It’s embarrassing how it interlaces itself between his thoughts, between spare moments playing cards with Harkness or losing Scrabble against Deacon. He drinks at the Atomic Wrangler, mulling his thoughts, and when Beatrix finds out he wants to go back to Jacobstown, she gives him a letter.

“There. Give that to Calamity, and you’ve got your excuse. Not that you need one.” Beatrix grins and ruffles his hair. Her benediction smells like smoke and leather. “Go buy yourself an enema kit and have fun.”

And in the end, after all of Danse’s rehearsals and excuses, Deacon just rolls over on the couch and grabs another book from his stack of pulp novels. “You want to go by yourself? Sure. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or if you do, give me deets when you get back!”

So as Danse treks up the mountain, sweat sticking his shirt to his back and his breath puffing between his lips, he wonders _why_ he had thought it would be such an endeavor. Deacon’s not nosy—at least not more than in the usual, friendly way of a former spy—but Danse has never had a relationship he felt comfortable being open about. Not since Rivet City.

Not since Cutler.

Keene had said he knew why humans liked him, why it would take a lot worse than Danse to ever hurt him, and just now Danse thinks he is starting to understand the enormity of his own assumptions.

There is no rewriting the past. There is no rewriting the Brotherhood, the squires on the Prydwen, the assault on Sanctuary or what they did to the Slog. And even though Danse left—was _forced out_ —before the worst of it, that does not mean he’s actually changed.

The Railroad can only change his memories of the past, not what he’s done. 

All he can do is try to do better.

Marcus greets him, warm and welcome, and Danse gives Calamity her letter before looking for Keene. Today, Keene is mending fences on the outskirts of Jacobstown, working with Lee. Lee’s whistling _Jingle, Jangle, Jingle,_ and Danse hovers at the periphery, wondering if he should wait to be noticed, or if that would only result in another accusation of staring.

Before he can overthink it, he sets down his pack.

“Hey. Need a hand?”

Keene gives a sharp exhale, wiping his forehead with the back of his palm. “Sure. Pass the nails.”

Keene doesn’t talk, other than the occasional grunt and holding out his palm expectantly, so Danse doesn’t either. Lee continues whistling as he and Keene tear off the broken and rotting posts and rails. Danse starts humming along, only realizing it after Keene gives an exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes. Danse stops, embarrassed, but Lee turns and gives him a wink and a gesture to keep going. Bolstered, Danse starts humming again, and Keene gives Lee a look of unadulterated disgust. Lee stops just long enough to stick his tongue out.

Finally, after the repairs are done, Lee claps Danse on the back. Danse staggers, but Keene catches him and grunts, “Careful.”

Lee chuckles, patting Danse’s head. Danse squirms, unsure whether it’s meant to be affectionate or patronizing, but Lee grins and touches his fingers to his chin, hand flat as he draws it out.

“He says ‘thank you,’” Keene translates.

Danse flushes. “Ah. You’re welcome?” He mimics the sign in return.

Lee slaps his knee, waggling his eyebrows and laughing.

“Now you’re just flirting,” Keene says dryly. “Fingers on the chin, not lips. Unless you’d rather blow kisses.”

Lee straightens up, signing a rapid flurry that Danse can’t follow, but Keene grunts and returns a choppier series of signs. They go back and forth, leaving Danse simmering in his own awkwardness until Keene finally rolls his eyes and turns back to Danse.

“For the record, I’m nobody’s wingman. You can get your own fuckbuddy,” Keene says, signs slightly syncopated from his speech. Lee blows a loud raspberry at Keene. “But if you want to flirt, Lee’s into that. And he’d like you to know he actually cuddles after sex, which I do not because I am an asshole,” Keene continues, utterly deadpan. He holds his thumb and forefinger looped, fingers splayed and dangling at chest level.

Lee nods vigorously.

“Er.” Danse straightens up, holding his hands behind his back. Who knows _what_ he might accidentally sign. “I actually came out to talk with you, Keene. If that’s all right.” His neck itches, and he valiantly resists the urge to scratch.

Lee chuckles, a short huff of air from his mouth as he shrugs, then waves goodbye. He picks up the tools and ambles off, whistling merrily.

Danse swallows, waiting until Lee’s out of earshot, then feels guilty for assuming what Lee can or can’t hear. As if Keene wouldn’t tell Lee whatever he wanted anyway.

Keene seems in no hurry to speak, instead stretching his shoulders, twisting his torso as he cracks his knuckles.

Finally, Danse says, “I brought some gifts. If you like.”

Soap, buttons, needles, tequila—they all seem pitifully small things now, Danse awkwardly rummaging and pressing them into the vast pit of Keene’s hand.

“That’s nice,” Keene says flatly. “What do you want?” He does not close his fingers over the bottle, does not so much as raise his hand to acknowledge the presents.

“I didn’t—I don’t want anything.”

“Bullshit. You’re a human—or close enough—and humans don’t give things without expecting something in return. Not from us.”

“I’m not—” Danse swallows. _I’m not human_. The words that had once been a source of shame are now a sort of stubborn pride, if he could only will himself to say it. “I mean—I’m sorry. I wanted to see you again. I like spending time with you. And I liked when you were nice to me, too.”

Keene lets out a long sigh. “Someone fucked you up real good, if you think _I’m_ nice.” He kneels—and even kneeling he’s taller than Danse, makes Danse shiver in his long shadow as he drops the gifts back into Danse’s pack. “We fucked. We can keep fucking, sure. But don’t make it more than it is.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Danse keeps his gaze fixed on the ground, on a wooden chip midway between his feet.

“Don’t call me ‘sir’ unless we’re fucking.” Keene sounds too tired for anger, and Danse winces, realizing that _he’s_ the reason for that exhaustion.

“I’m sorry.”

Keene grunts. “Go fuck Lee if you want. He’s always good for a good time.”

“That wasn’t—I mean. I was thinking about what you said last time. About getting gangbanged. If you were serious about that, I would—” His tongue is gravel, his feet are lead. His body wants to sink into the ground. “I would like that very much.”

Keene grimaces, then lets out a long breath. Shoulders tense, but lowering as he studies Danse. “You don’t have to do that. Not for me.”

“I’m not.” Danse swallows, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m not doing this for you. I mean, I _would_ like to please you, yes. I am...starting to realize how much I like pleasing people.” Keene snorts, but doesn’t interrupt. “But _I_ want this. I would like this, very much. To be—” Danse blushes, still studying the chip between his feet, the broken edges where the wood flakes. “—to be filled. Dominated. By more than one person. And _I_ want this. Not just because you want it.”

“And you thought you had to pay me for it?”

“I hadn’t meant it as payment,” Danse says, shoulders stiff. “I enjoy your company. And I thought it might be...friendly. You always give me room and board, after all.”

“Room and board’s from the town. Courtesy for traders and couriers. If you want to give back to the town? Go through Marcus.”

Danse exhales, forcing his spine to relax. One vertebra at a time, unlocking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” He picks up his pack, shifting it uncomfortably between his shoulders. He’ll have to rebalance it later, but it’ll do for the short walk to his quarters.

He takes only a dozen steps before Keene chuckles.

“What the hell. If all you want is a good time, we can do that. It’s been a while since I’ve gangbanged a pretty human.” Danse turns to see Keene crossing his arms, grinning. “But I don’t fuck for pay. You want to meet any of them first?”

Danse's breath flutters with relief. He had thought about this, about the comfort of anonymity. Even if they know who he is—impossible not to, not when he sticks out in Jacobstown as sorely as Keene would in Freeside—he’s not sure he will be able to face any of them in the morning without blushing. “I trust your judgment.”

“You want mean-nasty or nice-nasty?”

Danse coughs into his fist, struggling not to stammer. “Nice, sir—Keene.”

“Wash up, then.” Laughing, Keene adds, “We’re going to fill you _up_.”

. . .

Danse gives the buttons and tequila to Marcus, who thanks him and promises to find a use for them. The soap he keeps for himself, craving some personal comfort before the evening ahead.

He helps Lily with dinner, eats lightly, and afterwards Keene tells him the time to be ready. Danse nods, bites his lip, and goes to his room.

As before, he’s assigned to private quarters in a cabin, not the main lodge. It has its own bathroom, for which he is profoundly grateful as he washes. The shower is lukewarm and tepid, but still a luxury compared to most of the wasteland. Danse works slowly, lathering the bar of soap into the palm of his hand before wiping it over his face, then scratching lightly at his stubble to rinse out the suds. He wonders if he should shave, but shies away at the thought. Is it possible to be too eager for a gangbang? He washes from the top down, working behind his ears, then his neck, down his arms, and thoroughly cleaning his armpits before moving down his belly. Groin, thighs, shins, feet. He even scrubs between his toes, wondering if slovenliness on his part would reflect poorly on Keene.

Finally, Danse takes a deep breath and goes into a half-squat, washing his ass. Then again, more soap. Soap makes a terrible lube, but he lathers his finger and gently presses against his rim, easing in slowly. Carefully.

Maybe he should have brought a plug.

The enema is awkward, more for the memories it brings than the actual insertion. As Danse lies on his side in the tub, watching the bag empty, he thinks of Maxson’s face, Maxson’s hands. Maxson patting him on the flank, telling him he was being so good for doing this.

This isn’t for Maxson, though. Not anymore.

When the enema’s done its job, Danse rinses himself again and slings a towel around his waist. It feels presumptuous to sit naked while waiting for his guests, but equally silly to get dressed when his first order will likely be to disrobe.

Order.

He had assumed Keene would take charge, but perhaps that had been presumptuous as well.

He dithers in his own thoughts, laying out clean clothes and putting them away in an empty dresser, then bringing them out again to consider. He tucks his shirt over a pair of new pants, folds and refolds them, and when someone knocks at the door, Danse is still wearing just a towel and the clothing is back in the dresser.

“Coming!” Danse nearly trips over his own feet, answering the door.

It’s Keene. Without preamble, the nightkin says, “I found three friends. That good?”

Danse nods mutely, moving aside to let Keene through. Keene brushes past him, skin still cold from the night air, but Danse finds himself drawn towards the man’s presence, his weight. The way he fills the world around him, confident in his own skin.

Keene sniffs the air, cocking his head, then grins. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“Still want to do this?”

“Yes. Sir,” Danse dares to add.

“Mouth? Ass? Anything off limits?”

Danse shakes his head.

Keene rolls his eyes. “Come on. You have _some_ limits. You don’t like being called ‘slut,’ for one.”

Flinching, Danse nods. “No names. Nothing degrading.”

“What about ‘cocksucker’?”

Danse coughs, almost dropping his towel as unexpected heat blooms in his chest and groin. “I—I like that.”

“How do you feel about come on your face? Hair?”

Danse bites the inside of his cheek. Carefully, still weighing out the newness of it, he says, “I want—I want to be covered. Inside and out.”

“Spitroast?”

Danse flushes. “Yes, please.”

“Would you like them to hang around and talk, after?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Danse says, “Please don’t—I mean no disrespect, but I’ve never done this before. Part of it’s the—the fantasy of being used. Of being anonymous. Maybe in the morning, but right after? I don’t…” He trails off, uncertain of what point he meant to make.

“Are you sure you want to be alone?”

Danse knows what he wants. He wants Keene to stay, to spend the night for a change. He wants to fall asleep in the curve of another’s body.

But if he asks for it, then he risks being told ‘no.’

“You don’t like saying no.” Keene’s voice is neutral; a statement, not a question.

Danse tenses, unsure of what response Keene is hoping for.

“I’ll stick around and help you clean up. If you want to be alone after that, you can tell me to go. It’s just friendly fucking, right?”

Danse still doesn’t know what he means, doesn’t know what makes something a _friendly_ fuck instead of the seeds of an actual relationship, but nods anyway. It might only be a scrap of affection, but he’ll take it.

“You have a word you want to use? If you want to stop?”

Was _everyone_ in the wasteland using safewords and Danse never knew? Or was it that Maxson had never bothered, and that Danse had trusted him…?

“Red, sir,” his mouth responds, his brain still on autopilot. Dredged from his past play with Beatrix. If he had been asked to pick his own word, Danse would be in stymied silence.

“And if your mouth is full, can you use your hands?” Keene asks. He demonstrates, one hand open and the palm up, facing him. He gives a brisk twist, fingers vibrating.

Danse nods, twisting his own hand in mimicry.

“Are you ready?”

Danse takes a deep breath. Holds it in his lungs. Toes digging into the worn rug, and wonders how many other guests have shared this particular Jacobstown hospitality. “Yes, sir.”

Keene blindfolds him, and it carries all the warm familiarity of ritual as he folds the bandanna, pressing the creases with his fingers before holding it up to Danse’s face. Danse closes his eyes, submits to the gentle pressure of it across his nose, the way it crimps his ear as Keene ties the knot, then carefully adjusts it to sit squarely at the back of Danse’s skull.

Danse breathes in. Out. A cool and gentle darkness in the small confines of the room, close enough to feel the warmth of Keene’s presence, the comfort of another body.

“Relax. Breathe,” Keene murmurs.

Danse coughs on the exhale, a rapid push of stoppered air. Breathes in again, trying to sink into calm acceptance rather than anxious want. Relaxes, shoulders loose as Keene rubs his back. The other man’s hand spans the entire breadth of Danse’s back, warm and steady. Danse works on slowing his breathing—no, that’s the wrong word for it, he _lets_ his breathing slow. Feels his heartbeat slow with it, an autonomous metronome. Slowing the rhythm of his body, sinking into it.

Keene wants him to relax. Danse wants to please Keene.

It's as simple as that.

Danse continues breathing, slow. His feet flat on the rug, gentle. Sunk into the warmth of Keene’s hand, the weight of his own body pressing into the mattress.

When someone knocks at the door, Danse startles, jerking his chin towards the noise. Keene squeezes the back of Danse’s neck, gently cuffing him, and calls out for them to come in. There are multiple footsteps, heavy, with a distinct clatter of gaits and boots and rustling, all jostling around Danse amid low chuckles and friendly greetings. Danse strains his ears, trying to pick out the voices. There’s Keene, of course, and he recognizes Neil’s voice. Someone else with an accent that Danse can’t quite place, an over-enunciated emphasis on the sibilants of their speech. He’s sure there are four of them now—and Keene _had_ said he was getting three friends—but either Danse can’t distinguish their voices or the fourth one is quiet. Danse wonders if it’s Lee.

He hopes it’s Lee.

“Is this your first gangbang, sweetheart?” asks Neil, leaning in front of Danse. Massive hands cover Danse’s knees, squeezing gently as the mutant stands near enough that Danse can feel his breath against Danse’s mouth. Danse nods, trying to estimate where Neil’s face is.

“Don’t call him sweetheart,” Keene grumbles, but someone else makes a loud raspberry and the others burst out laughing.

“I’ll stop calling him sweetheart when he stops being so sweet.”

The unknown mutant snickers. “Yeah, but Keene's idea of dirty talk comes straight from porn.” Another laugh, and the ringing slap of a high-five.

“You assholes are just lucky I like sharing my toys,” Keene growls, stroking Danse’s back. Danse can’t help a whimper, arching into his touch. Keene laughs, kissing the top of his head. “I haven’t stretched him out yet, so go slow. Who wants to go first?”

“I’ll take his pretty mouth,” Neil says, pressing a finger to the swell of Danse’s lower lip. Danse lets out a shuddering breath, and Neil slides his finger—or maybe his thumb, the way the joint curls across Danse’s tongue—and swipes it into Danse’s mouth. Danse curves his tongue, licking as gently as he can. Gentle, so gentle, a silent plea that they will use him gently for now. All tongue, no teeth, his lips curled around the bend of the thumb, dipping until his mouth stops at the join of the hand, sucking with a soft gathering of warmth and saliva. Neil’s skin tastes faintly of smoke and salt, warm and organic, and when he pulls his thumb from Danse’s mouth it’s with a pop.

Other hands are on Danse. Every touch is a surprise, every caress a gentle shock. Unable to see, he’s not sure where to lean, where to hope for the next touch, but he butts up into the hand stroking his hair, shivers as someone draws their finger down the line of his spine, someone else strokes his thigh, pinches—and Danse yelps, but someone chuckles and Neil leans in, pressing his mouth to Danse’s and _oh, oh_ this is nice, this is just letting himself be touched and fondled and opening his mouth for Neil’s tongue. Dimly, foggy through the haze of gentle touch and general good feelings, Danse can hear the rustle of leather and fabrics, the muffled thumps of things dropping to the floor. Clothes, maybe.

The anticipation adds another sort of hunger, and Danse dares to raise his hands and feel for Neil’s face. He finds the curve of the man’s jaw, slides his palm to cup Neil’s cheek, and Neil gives a pleased hum that reverberates all through Danse’s mouth and chest.

Neil pulls away, and Danse experiences a rapid crush of disappointment before Neil says, “I hear you’re a good little cocksucker. You want my cock in your mouth?”

“Yes, sir.”

Neil squeezes his hand under Danse’s jaw, guiding him in place as Danse kneels on the bed, then putting his cock to Danse’s mouth. It has the smooth, plasticky feel of silicone, and for a moment Danse is terrified that he’s been misgendering Neil all along—but Neil pushes, gentle, and Danse relaxes his throat, stacking his hands over the long shaft. Neil holds still, letting Danse set the pace as he starts with shallow thrusts of his mouth, swirling his tongue and trying to get a slick coat before going lower, lapping his tongue under the thick curve of the head. There’s an appreciative murmur to the side, and oh—Danse forgot they were being watched, that there are others waiting their turn, or maybe just enjoying the show. Danse has always done his best when following orders, when trying to prove himself, so he warms into it. A wet, sloppy sound escapes his mouth, and Neil wraps a hand across the back of Danse’s head, guiding him deeper.

Danse can’t take all of it, even trying—and oh damn but he’s _trying_ —so he twists his hands, trying to provide an illusion of depth beyond his own pitifully small mouth and grateful that silicone can’t feel teeth. But spit’s an inadequate lubricant, so when someone pries his hand off Neil’s dick and gives him a squirt of lube, he gives a grateful moan. The sudden ease of movement is wet, obscene, and he starts rocking into it, the mattress creaking beneath him as he bobs down Neil’s cock.

“God, what a cocksucker,” murmurs the one with the accent.

Keene laughs, and the pride in his voice makes Danse blush. “You think he’s good now? Just wait until he’s got a cock in his ass. He fucking _begs_ for it.”

“God, you’re so pretty going down my cock,” Neil moans, and Danse leans forward, elbows braced against the man’s thighs and trying to please, trying to show Keene that he’s a good boy, that he’s proud to be shared…

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, sweetheart…” and Danse is so grateful that he’s done a good job, he doesn’t even question how Neil’s coming, how Neil’s getting off. He just sucks, keeps sucking, moans around Neil’s cock as Neil shudders into orgasm. He wraps his hands around Neil, far enough down now to feel the smooth straps of the halter, fingers curling into the skin of the thigh—

Neil gives a choked laugh, pushing Danse back. “That _tickles_ , no.”

“Surprised you came already,” teases the one with the accent.

Everyone laughs; maybe Neil made an obscene gesture. Neil crouches, pressing his mouth to Danse’s, and Danse opens with a warm kiss. The mattress dips, creaking beneath his weight, and Danse lists sideways into Neil’s arm before Neil catches him with a squeeze. “Kneel for me. See if you can handle another cock while I warm up your ass.”

Danse swings his legs onto the bed, clumsy with want. Knees clattering as he sets his palms on the edge of the mattress, bracing himself against someone’s hand—Neil’s?—and catching a familiar whiff of musk and sweat, someone else taking their place in front of him. Danse spreads his knees, opens his mouth, and is rewarded as someone else’s cock slides past his lips.

Whoever it is feels more eager, or maybe just less patient, than Neil—they immediately twist their hand into Danse’s hair, nails scraping the scalp as they tug him deeper. He gags as their cock presses the back of his throat, a gargled choke that makes them draw back, but he swallows and shifts, kneeling as he wraps a hand around their cock, creating a backstop for his hungry mouth.

Someone—Neil, must be Neil—slides a hand under his chest, half-cupping Danse to help him balance as Danse keeps sucking. Danse shivers, clamping his lips over his teeth as a lube-slick finger probes his hole, lube smearing down his taint. That broad finger presses, too slow, and Danse bucks onto it with startled ease.

“It’s like he’s _made_ for this,” Neil chuckles.

Danse chokes back a laugh—as if the Institute had ever designed him for this, as if the Railroad had ever planned this, as if Danse can point and blame anyone else for his own kinks and fantasies—and Neil’s finger slides in, shallow thrusts that Danse tries to mimic on the other mutant’s cock, an odd sort of synchrony in being filled on both sides. The mutant fucking his mouth grunts, finger on his throat again.

Keene says, “Hey. Want to get your throat fucked?"

Danse moans, nodding around his mouthful of cock.

Neil chuckles, sliding his finger out. Some sort of unspoken synergy, because the mutant in front of him draws out, and then both of their hands are on him, flipping Danse over so he’s on his back, head dangling off the edge of the bed. A sudden topsy-turvy movement, his heart rattling his chest because it was _effortless_ , and now Neil’s fingering his ass and there’s a slow stretch as another finger slides in, and the other mutant’s at his mouth again, a shallow thrust that bobs their cock over Danse’s teeth and at the edge of his throat. Danse struggles in the new position, the strangeness of the angle as he reaches out to grasp the man’s thighs and hips, trying to slow the speed as they slide down, down, slow and unstoppable. He’s grateful for the elasticity of synth tissue as they press down, a white-hot press of _fullness_ and pressure that blocks his throat, stoppers his breathing. It’s only for a moment, a gentle gasp as they withdraw, as Danse can breathe again, as he squirms down Neil’s fingers and adjusts his neck, trying to create a long, smooth passage for the other mutant.

“You look so pretty with your mouth full. I can see him going all the way down your throat,” Neil croons, leaning over to kiss Danse’s belly, to nibble at his hips. He drags his teeth in a long, gnawing motion that makes Danse tremble, and somehow that makes it easier for the one fucking his throat to slide down and in.

Danse is helpless, fully controlled between them—can’t brace himself for the cock sliding down his throat, can’t squeeze his knees together as Neil finger-fucks him, can’t do anything but breathe and gasp and accept them inside him, their fingers, their cocks. A warm chuckle comes above him, a wet smacking sound like someone kissing, only they’re not kissing _him_ , so maybe they’re kissing each other. The one fucking his mouth gives a shudder, a soft smack of his hips against Danse’s chin, balls bouncing against Danse’s nose and Danse struggles to breathe, to trust, to accept them using his body to give themselves pleasure. Danse has wanted so much and so little in his life—warmth, safety, to be of service—and with Neil murmuring encouragement and the other one telling him he’s pretty and even Keene telling him he’s good, he’s being a good boy, it’s easier to relax as Neil scissors his fingers apart, as the other mutant presses himself against Danse’s face and it’s just holding his breath, letting his chest burn and tighten and then the sweet rush of air once more as he’s free. Every moment gentle, every moment inexorable.

Danse could stop, if he wanted—he still has his hands, still has Keene’s promise—but knowing he _can_ stop makes him not _want_ to stop, makes him want to push as far as they’ll let him, to take as much as they’ll give him.

A heavy shuffle, footsteps in motion, and then—the quiet one fucking his face gives a sudden groan, thighs smacking into Danse’s hands, and someone chuckles, and there’s growling and something unseen but _wonderful_ happening over Danse’s face, because Neil’s laughing and maybe they’re kissing again, maybe Danse is nothing but a set-piece or toy for them to play with while they touch and kiss each other, and that’s okay because that means that Danse is doing a good job, he’s doing what they want—

Neil licks Danse’s cock, a massive swipe of his tongue and Danse groans, moans, almost chokes on the cock sliding down his throat again as he bucks against Neil’s mouth. Just to be touched, to be petted like this, is such an unexpected treat that he’s half-afraid he’ll come just like this, and if he comes too soon they might think he’s _done_ even though the night’s barely started.

“Don’t come in his throat,” Keene rasps. “Don’t want him sore yet. Yeah, face is good.” A sharp laugh. “Put a load on his face.”

The one in his throat pulls out, and there’s a wet smack of skin on skin just inches from Danse’s face before a wet slap of liquid hits his chin. He jerks back, trying to keep it from dripping down his nostrils as another rope of come streaks across his cheek, his hair. Probably the blindfold too, though not yet soaking through the fabric.

“Let me have his ass,” says the one with the accent, somewhere above Danse’s head. “I’ve wanted to fuck his ass since I saw him walking bowlegged, that morning after.”

“You hear that, toy? You did such a good job that now you’ve got muties lining up to fuck your ass,” Keene growls, and maybe Danse should feel embarrassed but he’s _proud_ , warm and tingling all through his chest as they flip him over. There are hands all over Danse again, gripping his thighs and maneuvering, pressing him onto the mattress with his ass in the air and his dick chafing against the blanket.

“Spread yourself open, sweetheart. I want to see him slide inside you.”

And oh, but Danse has always been good about following orders. He reaches back, one hand on each of his cheeks. Grips. Pulls. Feels the weight of their gazes on his exposed hole, ears burning at their admiring murmurs and stomach fluttering as they tell him what a good boy he is, such a good boy…

The bed creaks beneath someone’s weight, tilting Danse backwards, but he’s caught by someone’s hand on his back, someone gripping his hips, feeling his knees boxed by someone kneeling behind them as they line up. He bites his lip, bracing for entry, but Keene orders him to beg, so he _does_ , whimpering as the cock slides against him, rubbing between his cheeks before pressing his hole. Lube-slick, slippery enough to squelch as it slides in, such a stretch that at first it hurts, it flutters and burns and Danse is afraid he’ll have to tap out, give up and admit that his fantasies were larger than reality, but once it eases past the pain of that initial entry Danse is just _full_. Magnificently, gloriously _full._ His entire body pulses around the weight and heft of the cock inside him, so deep he’s certain that the mutant can feel Danse’s heart hammering, his entire body in ebb and shake and he just wants to sink into the bed, savor that fullness, but Keene is giving orders and Danse fights through the muddled sweetness of his own thoughts to listen.

“Talk, toy. Tell us how you feel with his cock inside you.”

“G-good,” Danse stutters, tongue wet and slurry around the words. “So good.”

“You love getting fucked, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Danse buries his head in the comforter, feeling the come smear across his face. He must look a mess, feels a mess, still speared on the other man’s cock. Hands still spreading himself open, knowing he’s being watched, each mutant waiting for a turn.

“He’s so _tight_ ,” groans the voice behind him, and the grip on his hips tighten. Painful, now—no, not painful, just uncomfortable. Danse swallows his gasp, lets out a gulp of excitement instead. “I’m afraid to hurt him.”

“Then go slow,” says Neil, and there’s a pat on Danse’s ass, just above his own fingers. A massive thumb swipes across Danse’s knuckles, gentle. “I want to watch you push into him. All the way.”

“Please, sir.” Danse’s voice quavers, and he hates it. Hates that he sounds so uncertain, when he’s never been more sure of wanting anything else. “Please, sir. I want it. I can take it. Please— _ngh_.” He drops into a low moan as the man starts pushing, and it’s slow, achingly slow, Danse’s thighs trembling with the effort of staying still while that cock slides into him, slowly, inch by inch driving Danse into the mattress. His knees buckle beneath the weight, his chest pressed flat as he tries to stay open, submitting to the welcome intrusion. Finally, with the other man’s hips flush against his ass, Danse thinks it’s over, it’s done, he can’t possibly take any more, but then the man starts pulling _out_ and it’s that same gentle slide, that immense pressure and fullness and Danse just wants it again, over and over, and each thrust is so slow, maddeningly so, driving him wild with want and desire until finally he’s begging _please, sir, faster_. The pace picks up, slamming Danse into the bed, knocking the bed frame against the wall and creating a percussive backbeat as Danse writhes against the comforter, lube sloppy between his thighs and his dick leaking precome and he’s getting _laughed_ at, but it’s good laughter, listening to Keene and Neil and the mutant grunting into him as they talk about how good he is, how hungry, how he’s so good at following orders…

Maybe he’s being used, but Danse _likes_ being used, and that’s what makes it so good. His balls tighten at the thought, drawing up and he has a belated realization that oh no, oh yes, he’s going to _come_ , his dick’s still rubbing up on the blankets and everything’s so _good_ —

He tries to stop, to slow himself down, but he only manages a hiccuping moan as he clenches, tightening around that cock and the mutant lets out a startled “Jesus _fuck_ ,” as Danse ejaculates. Danse’s ass throbs, pulsing in the afterquakes of orgasm and that’s enough to make the other man come too, one final shove before Danse feels himself filling up with liquid heat, dripping through his core.

Danse is still shaking, trembling as his heart lurches between fear and pride. He did good, he did _so_ good, he made three of them come already, but he still hasn’t made _Keene_ come and Danse doesn’t want the night to end, no…

“You came, little toy?” rasps the man fucking him, his warmth over Danse’s body, his voice hovering over Danse’s ear.

Danse whimpers, nodding. “Please don’t stop, sir. Please. I want to keep going.”

“ _Told_ you he likes it,” Keene laughs.

The man who just fucked Danse chuckles, kissing him on the back of his neck, then nuzzling behind his ear. “I’ll be back, no worries. I definitely want to fuck this ass again.” He pulls out slowly, his cock already softening. Danse instinctively tries to grip down, clenching as he leaves, but it only makes a soft pop that expels him even faster.

“Look at that cute little hole. I just want to fill it up…”

“Go for it,” Keene grunts, and Danse is grabbed by the arms, pulled forward and landing face-first in Keene’s lap. He knows it’s Keene by the voice, the smell, the way Keene shoves his cock into Danse’s mouth. Danse immediately opens, swiping his tongue across the tip and swell of the head, gathering the salt and musk of him. This is welcome, familiar even, and Danse cups his hands around Keene’s cock and keeps sucking. Behind him, there’s creaking, swaying, people changing positions and someone else’s hands on his hips as they slide into his ass. This second round goes easier than the first, Danse already slick with lube and semen, and the other mutant gives a pleased grunt.

“I love when they’re relaxed like this. So much easier to fuck. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” One of the hands lifts from Danse’s hips, patting his ass.

“You just like sloppy seconds,” says Keene, though with a sharp hiss as Danse swallows down his shaft.

“And sloppy thirds,” Neil says amenably. “I just like sloppy.”

Danse moans around Keene’s cock, bobs his head and tries to get a rhythm. He doesn’t have much control over his hips, but Neil’s happy to set up a gentle rock and swivel of his hips that lets Danse suck Keene without worrying about choking. He wonders how much they’ve talked about him—if Keene had bragged about him, that first night. If Keene had been glowing, praising. If Danse is living up to their expectations…

Danse shivers, startled out of his reverie as more hands touch him, caress him. Unfamiliar mouths and lips across his back, nibbling and kissing. Like he might be devoured by their want, their need. He is so small next to them, would break himself even smaller if they wanted, but they’re so gentle. If he is bruised by this, it’s only with tenderness, with want. He might be a toy, but not one meant to be broken.

So when he feels the familiar clench and throb of Keene’s cock in his mouth, he pushes deeper. Tongues it to the back of his throat, swallows as Keene’s come fills his mouth. Swallows again, pulling back with his mouth open and tongue cupped to catch the last drops.

“Good little cocksucker,” Keene sighs.

Danse melts at the warmth of that praise. “Please, sir, may I have more?”

“God _damn_. You know how to pick them,” laughs the one with the accent, and after that it just gets harder to track who is where, who is doing what to Danse.

It all falls into a pleasant blur of bodies, hands, lube and friction. Someone is in Danse’s mouth again, and Danse thinks it was the quiet one who fucked his throat earlier—his cock tastes of semen, cool and tacky on Danse’s tongue. It’s nice to revisit it, to do a more thorough job. Last time, the mutant had been the one controlling Danse, and Danse hadn’t had a chance to demonstrate any technique beyond being a passive channel. This time, Danse sucks and swirls and gives noisy, open-breathed moans until he gets the mutant off, swallowing as much come as he can until it overflows his mouth and drips down his chin. Neil eventually finishes in his ass, and the messy squelch of semen leaking out would be almost embarrassing if it weren’t for the fact that someone else immediately takes Neil’s place, jostling Danse between the two cocks without a break. One in his mouth, one in his ass, they could just pick him up and suspend him between them and he’d like it, he’d love it, he’d beg for this every night if they’d let him. Passed from mutant to mutant, and when he can’t swallow, when his mouth is thick and sticky, or maybe just when they’ve decided they’ve had enough, they start coming over his chest instead, his back, letting it collect in the dip of his spine and the crevices of his skin.

At one point, he’s held upright between two of them. One of them fucks his ass from behind, one hand wrapped around his waist and the other on his chest, sliding him up and down as sweat and semen smear between them, as the lube trickles down Danse’s thighs. The blindfold is damp across Danse’s eyes, one edge folded over his ear now, but it’s not worth mentioning as the one in front puts a mouth on his neck. There’s too much teeth for it to be a kiss, just a gnawing pressure that has Danse shivering. They could devour him whole with their attention, could make him lose all sense of self beyond being _theirs_.

He comes again, at some point. He comes inside someone’s mouth, someone with a gentle tongue that licks him from the crack of his ass up to his balls and then sucks them, gently, his entire groin inside their mouth before they suck on his cock and he comes. It’s such a weak, tepid thing next to their volume, but whoever it is swallows and gives a pleased hum—so maybe it’s not Keene, because he can’t imagine Keene ever swallowing for him—and comes back up to give him a kiss, sweet and bitter with rut.

“Sweetheart, do you know how much you’ve taken?” Neil’s voice is distant, blurry, and Danse just mumbles a non-answer. He’s being used, he’s being fucked, he hardly cares how many times he’s been fucked by now. “Sweetheart, you’ve taken a _lot_. Are you sure you don’t need a break?”

“Drink,” growls Keene, and someone presses a bottle to his lips. Danse swallows obediently, cool water sluicing through the sex caked across his mouth.

Danse doesn’t want to stop, not really, but his thighs ache and his jaw’s sore and his ass is dripping and now that they’ve taken this moment to pause, he can feel the unpleasant drying of lube, sweat, and semen all over his body. Itchy between his cheeks, smeared and sticky over his hair.

So he tries to couch it in terms of what they’ll want to hear, what might please them. “Please, I want you to feel good. If you’re not done—”

“Jesus fucking christ.”

“I had a good time, pretty boy. But I want you to be able to walk in the morning,” Neil chuckles. “I’ve had enough for tonight, but if you ever want to do this again…”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” says Keene, and there’s some slapping and laughter as the mutants roll around on the bed, the floor, and Danse sits shivering in the cooling aftermath as they pull on their pants and adjust their buckles and wipe themselves down. Danse lets their noise wash over him, cool and achingly distant after the warmth of being surrounded by their touch. 

Then—blessed shock, someone tucks their fingers under his chin, angles him up to receive a kiss on the mouth. Gentle, little more than a brush of lips, then pulling back to give him an affectionate pat on the head. The next person does the same, though with one hand on the back of Danse’s skull, drawing him in with a soft hum. And the last gives him a kiss with teeth, a light nibble on the bottom lip before chuckling and pulling away.

Danse is too stupefied to do anything more than blush, mumbling gratitude as the door opens and closes. Heavy steps walk out the front porch and leave Danse alone in the sudden-empty cabin.

Well. Not completely alone.

Keene undoes Danse’s blindfold, grunting at the stiffness of the knot before he pulls it off. The room is dazzling bright after the blindfold, and Danse blinks repeatedly to make his vision swim into focus. His skin seems pale, almost luminous with the layers of dried come and lube tacky and flaking all over it. There are bruises, yes; bites and pinches, red and purple rosettes across his thighs and chest.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Keene says, and Danse’s heart hammers up his throat. Keene sits back on the bed, knees spread, and pats the spot between his legs. Danse immediately slides into place, slotting against Keene with his ass against Keene’s dick.

It’s a warmth and a comfort, spooned up against him like this. Feeling how small, how _paltry_ he is next to Keene’s reassuring bulk. Still covered in mess, still dripping from his hole and with come smeared across his mouth and chin.

“Hold yourself open—yeah, like that,” says Keene, hands on Danse’s knees as Danse spreads. “Good boy. You did good. _Real_ good. Made me proud,” Keene murmurs, and he licks his fingers, presses it down to Danse’s wet hole. Danse opens his mouth, lets out a soft _ah_ as Keene slips his finger inside. No resistance, no friction, just the gentle pressure of Keene’s finger inside, wet and squelching as he stirs the mix of lube and semen. Maybe Danse should feel dirty, but there’s only pride. A strange sort of purity to this desire, because no matter how dirty Danse is, Keene still _wants_ him.

“I’m glad I could serve,” Danse whispers, eyes half-shut, almost afraid of breathing in case he disturbs this moment. A glob of liquid trickles out of him, ticklish down the curve of his ass.

“Up for one more? I want mine to be the last one inside you.”

Danse nods, no longer shy of coming off over-eager. Keene wraps his hands around Danse’s waist, tilting Danse against Keene’s chest, where he can feel the massive drumming of the other man’s heart. Their bodies are still slick with sweat, a hot, metallic reek that permeates every pore. Keene’s hard again—and strange, that Danse is used to this by now, that Danse no longer finds it strange—and his cock slips beneath Danse, rubs between Danse’s thighs, up against his cock and for one ludicrous moment it looks like it’s _Danse’s_ cock throbbing between his legs before Keene adjusts his grip, balancing Danse against his knees before lining up with Danse’s ass.

Danse groans, easing back and sitting down. He doesn’t have the energy for movement and lets gravity do the work, watching as Keene’s cock disappears inside him.

This is the first time that Keene’s let him _see_ during sex, the first time that Danse can really see, really _appreciate_ the strange wonder of their joining. Keene is still terrifyingly huge, all raw strength and bulk, but in vast and complete control. Danse watches the soft jiggle of his thighs and belly as Keene rocks his hips, bouncing Danse with the movement—he can find something impressive in it too. An acknowledgment of limits, of surpassing said limits.

It’s soothing, gentle even. Danse’s damp cock flops against his legs, his pubic hair matted with various dried fluids, but it’s not about being turned on anymore. It’s about calm acceptance, this quiet moment where he’s waiting for Keene to come.

Keene finishes with a soft sound, fingers clenched on Danse’s thigh, and pulls out. He rolls Danse onto the side of the bed, patting his ass. “Go to the bathroom. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Danse rises on stumbling feet, weight and mass all shifting inside him. There’s a gaseous sound as more come escapes his ass, and he speeds up to avoid dripping on the carpet. Keene catches up, takes him by the arm and guides him to the toilet. Danse stares at the peeling grey linoleum, too embarrassed to look at Keene as more noises—and liquid—escapes him. It takes a little while, during which Keene turns on the shower and gets more towels. Danse isn’t sure why Keene’s staying, but he’s afraid to ask in case it shatters the fairytale peace of the moment.

When Danse is done, Keene leads him into the shower. There’s a strange courtesy in it, one hand on Danse’s elbow, the other on the small of his back, and Danse doesn’t have the words to question him. So Danse just stands in mute acceptance as Keene rinses him down in the lukewarm water. Keene even works his shampoo into a gentle lather, massaging it into Danse’s scalp and rinsing it away before he goes down Danse’s body with equal care. Keene washes Danse limb by limb, head to toe. Squeezing his bicep, cupping his buttocks. Gentle over the bruises and marks. Danse lets himself stand there, because this is something Keene wishes to give him. This is something that Danse deserves to have given.

Keene washes himself after finishing with Danse, then turns off the water. He towels Danse off first, giving soft commands to raise his arms, to spread his legs. Danse obeys, slowly coming back to himself as Keene pats him dry.

He feels renewed. Rejuvenated, even. Starts to find his tongue as Keene dries himself off, using two of those massive towels.

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

Keene snorts, blowing past his lips with slow bluster. “You’re just used to being treated like shit.”

“I mean—the first time we fucked, you weren’t...like this.”

Keene sighs, tousling Danse’s hair. Danse can see it sticking up at angles in the half-fogged mirror. “You’re not a one-night stand anymore." Keene pauses, lips twisting. Not quite a smile, but less than a grimace. Uncertainty as an olive branch. "And...you’re not human. Guess that makes you one of us, after all.”

Danse mulls this over, walking out of the bathroom. He pulls on a clean set of boxers, the fabric catching on his damp skin. It’s a bittersweet thought, scalding his memories of Maxson. The more they fucked, the more dependable Danse had been. The more Maxson pushed, the less Maxson gave. Because he always knew that Danse would come back.

“And this was pretty fucking intense. Or intense fucking.” Keene chuckles at his own joke. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not a cuddler. But the drop—if there is one, you deserve not to be alone for that.”

Danse wouldn’t have asked—not because he didn’t _want_ it, but because he didn’t know it was an _option_ —but Keene has offered, and Danse is too exhausted for words, so he just nods. Keene folds himself into bed, tucks the blankets up to Danse’s chin, and rests with one hand on Danse’s hip.

Danse sleeps sheltered in the curve of Keene’s body.


	8. Epilogue: In Which Deacon Gets No Explanation

Danse makes his way down the mountain with a light heart. When he gets back to Freeside, he gives Deacon five caps and no explanation.


End file.
